Keep the Pain at Bay
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: Sherlock develops Rheumatoid Arthritis. It is up to John to help him cope with the physical and emotional pain that results. Beta read by Sherlock1110@ao3.
1. Chapter 1

Pain. That was the first thing that pierced his awareness. Incredible pain. It was his hands. They were aching intensely. The pain was radiating up his arms into his shoulders. Sherlock forced himself to stillness, keeping his eyes closed. He had to assess the situation.

His last memory? Falling asleep in his bed. Odd. It felt like he was in his bed. **Need more data.** Slowly, so as to avoid alerting anyone who might be watching, he cracked his eyes open a fraction. He was in his own room. The detective's eyes flew open. He was alone, there was no sign of anything amiss.

In one fluid motion, Sherlock sat up, placing his feet on the cold floor. He instantly regretted the motion. The pain blossomed in his shoulders and down his arms. It was then that he noticed. His fingers were curled into fists. Fists that he couldn't open.

Sherlock was well acquainted with pain. He had survived torture, after all. But this. It was pain without a cause. There was absolutely no reason behind it. He started to panic. He couldn't use his hands.

"John!" he called out, voice booming. "John, something is wrong!"

* * *

Later, John would attribute his actions to the panic in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock never panicked. The first thing John knew, he was standing in the detective's room, his gun in ready position. He took in the room at a glance. Except for Sherlock, there was no one there. "Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me. What the..."

It was then that he registered the panic in his flatmate's eyes. The genuine panic. John lay his gun down on Sherlock's bedside table and dropped to his knees in front of him. "What is it Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock's baritone was raw as he spoke, "I hurt John and my hands. I can't open them." He looked at John with pleading in his eyes, "What's wrong with me?"

John took a deep breath and forced himself into doctor mode. "Tell me where it hurts."

"My shoulders, arms and hands. They hurt, John, for no reason." Sherlock's voice cracked. He felt his reason slipping. He would not let this get the best of him. He would not.

John used his most soothing voice, "Relax, Sherlock. Let me feel." John's hands felt the detective's shoulders and moved down his arms, pausing at his elbows, wrists, and knuckles. He moved each arm through several movements, stopping each when Sherlock let out a moan of pain. "Right then. I'll go get you a pain killer. You'll take them. Then I'll go get some prescriptions filled. You'll take those. No argument. We'll deal with the symptoms now and I'll get you in to see a rheumatologist."

Sherlock looked at John with his processing face. John waited patiently. Finally, Sherlock spoke, "So, you suspect an immunological disease."

"Right." John let out a great sigh. "With your drug history, they will want to check for HIV, of course." John held up a placating hand. "I know, you always used a clean needle and you've been tested before. I'm just telling you what will happen. After that, well, there are so many possibilities, but with these symptoms, I'm sure they will test for Rheumatoid Arthritis up front as well."

Of course, Sherlock had the typical progression of the disease stored in his Mind Palace. Most damage occurred during the first seven years from onset. Vital organs could be attacked as well as joints. It was a leading cause of disability. He pushed those thoughts aside. Oddly, he had no information regarding onset. "But, John. I've had no symptoms before this. Nothing. Not a hint of pain."

John nodded. "I know. It's not that unusual, actually. It can develop slowly or it can come on all at once, like this. No warning." John tried not to show the worry on his face, but he felt it to his core. He forced a smile. "So, let me go get that painkiller, shall I?" When Sherlock didn't answer. John took that as a yes. "Right then. I'll be back."

John stepped out of Sherlock's room, closing the door behind himself. He leaned heavily against the adjoining wall and took a steadying breath. He knew there would be no quick answers. This was going to be so hard.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been two weeks since Sherlock woke in pain. He thought that he had put up with John's constant mothering quite well, but he felt much better and hadn't hurt in days. He hadn't had a case in days, either. Sherlock could practically feel his brain atrophying. He was "Bored!" he shouted out.

John briefly looked up from his paper then back down again before responding, "Good."

"Good. Good! GOOD! How can boredom possibly be good? My brain is melting. Slowly rotting. Turning into a massive lump of putrescent... meat." **Not my best rant.** Now Sherlock was up and pacing, taking great strides and turning when he reached the limits of the room. He was careful to turn rapidly so that his dressing gown flared dramatically, if not as nicely as his coat. It was the only method available at the moment to draw John's attention away from the newspaper and back onto Sherlock. To his surprise, it actually worked this time.

"Oh for fuck's sake Sherlock, sit down!" John snapped. To his surprise, it actually worked this time. John's hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, go compose something or start an experiment. Just stop it with the pacing. Try to relax a bit. Your body doesn't need this right now." **And there he goes.**

"Transport, John. Merely transport." Sherlock bounded to the window. Looking out, his hands fidgeted with the curtain.

John sighed with frustration. "You need to be paying attention to your transport right now, Sherlock. It's not functioning correctly. Speaking of which, have you taken your meds?" John was not surprised at the lack of response. "Right, then." John made his way to the kitchen without another word. Once there, he quickly made toast, grabbed a glass of water and Sherlock's prednisone. He walked to where Sherlock was standing and held out the plate and glass of water. "Now, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed, snatched the prednisone off of the plate, and downed it with the glass of water.

"Toast, Sherlock," John growled.

Sherlock pierced John with his best glare and stuffed the entire piece of toast into his mouth.

John had to stifle a laugh. Sherlock was such a child at times. Well, at most times. When he wasn't being brilliant.

"I need a case," Sherlock growled.

"No, you don't. Not until we get this sorted." **Appeal to his vanity.** "Look, just do whatever it is that you do in your Mind Palace, and tell me what someone with RA should be doing to take care of themselves."

Sherlock looked back out the window. "Can't. Deleted it. Besides, you said it yourself. We don't know that is what I have so why dwell on it."

Anyone else would have bought the careful mask of indifference that had slid into place when Sherlock spoke. Not John. He could see the fear behind the mask. **He's scared. He can't control this so he's scared.** The thought was disconcerting. "We'll hear back from the tests soon." For once, John was more than happy to take advantage of Mycroft's influence. The faster a diagnosis was reached, the better. Mycroft was moving things on quickly.

Of course, Sherlock had been furious when he deduced that John had called his brother. Honestly, John didn't give a damn.

"I'm hungry." Sherlock turned from the window again with a grimace. This had been going on for days and he didn't like it. At first, he had tried to ignore the sensation, but it had grown. Now it would not leave him alone. **Insufferable.**

"Alright," John replied. "I'll fix us a proper meal. Just limit what you eat between, okay." Those were words that John never thought he would be saying to Sherlock. **Oh the joys of prednisone.**

Sherlock's only response was a grunt.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later found Sherlock and John at NSY filling out paperwork on their latest case. It had barely ranked a five on Sherlock's scale, for which John was profoundly grateful. There had been no chases through the streets of London, no clashes with the underworld. Just a quick trip to a crime scene and a follow-up at the Yard.

Even so, John could see that the all was not well with his flatmate. Sherlock frequently broke off his pen scratching to rub absently at his right knee, faint lines of pain etching their way across his brow. The doctor in John itched to step up and examine the knee right now, but he knew that the detective would never allow it. John would have to bide his time.

Sherlock was growing increasingly frustrated. Not fifteen minutes ago, he had been fine. Now, the sharp pain and feeling of growing pressure in his knee was intruding on his ability to concentrate. **Transport** , he reminded himself and attempted to push the sensations from his awareness.

When the paperwork was complete, Sherlock moved to rise from where he sat. John had been waiting for this moment. He would observe the detective's motions and make his own deductions. The medical was his area of expertise and, in this one realm, he could out-deduce Sherlock, thank-you-very-much.

It was no great surprise to John when the detective's knee gave way beneath him and Sherlock was forced to catch his lanky frame against the table.

Is was a surprise to Sherlock who looked down at his knee with a feeling of betrayal. It would be impossible to put his full weight on his knee. Infuriatingly, he wouldn't be able to walk on his own. **How humiliating.**

It took a moment to register John's voice. The repeated command to "Sit down, Sherlock" finally breaking through to him. He gingerly lowered himself back into the chair and shot John a fierce glare as if were all John's fault.

Without waiting for permission, John knelt and pressed his hands to Sherlock's knee. It felt hot to the touch and was obviously quite swollen. **Fuck.** In the short time they had been at the Yard the detective's knee had obviously filled with fluid. "You're not walking on that."

Sherlock grimaced. "Obviously."

"Here, get up slowly and lean on me," John directed. "We'll get a cab and go straight to your rheumatologist. There's fluid on your knee and it has to be drained before it causes too much damage. I'll call ahead in the cab."

Sherlock didn't move. He refused to make himself a spectacle in front of the Yarders. There had to be an alternative. The detective's mind raced to find one, falling short. "Fine," he barked and followed through on John's orders.

It was inevitable, he supposed. All eyes were glued to the spectacle that he and John presented. Still, Sherlock loathed the attention. He particularly loathed the curious and almost gleeful look that Donovan shot their way. "Where's your sycophant, Donovan? I'm sure Anderson would enjoy the view as well."

 **He must be in pain. That barely counted as an insult.** "Come on, Sherlock. You're heavier than you look."

Together, they made their way out of NSY and into a cab. John made the arrangements with the rheumatologist then sat back, waiting tensely for an explosion that never came.

* * *

When they arrived at the rheumatologist's office, they were ushered directly into a small office. The one and only time they had been there before, Sherlock had terrorized the waiting patients with his deductions and harsh words. Mycroft had smoothed things over, of course. Still, the staff didn't want a repeat performance.

"John, I'm boorrred," came the detective's not-so-unexpected whine.

John really wasn't in the mood for it. "Look, Sherlock, the doctor has other patients beside you. A small bit of patience would be good here. Doctor Howitzer did work us in and we were brought back here instead of being left to wait outside. You're being given preferential treatment, so shut it."

Sherlock pouted and slid lower in the chair where he was waiting. He wouldn't meet John's eyes. Instead he pulled out his phone and started twiddling it in his fingers.

They didn't have to wait long for Doctor Howitzer join them. He was alone as Sherlock had terrorized the nursing staff as well. "Doctor Watson, Sherlock." Doctor Howitzer looked down at the chart, "So, you have severe swelling in you right knee, correct?"

"Obviously," came Sherlock's reply.

"A bit not good, Sherlock," warned John.

Doctor Howitzer didn't seem to mind. "Did you injure it in some way?" He gestured towards the detective's knee, "Do you mind?" When he didn't receive a reply, the doctor reached out and examined Sherlock's knee.

"It was perfectly fine. No injury. Over a period of less than twenty minutes, the pain set it." Sherlock's tone was flat.

The doctor looked at him speculatively, "Hmm, it feels like you have a large quantity of fluid build-up. I think the best way to proceed is to remove the fluid and then follow up with a corticosteroid injection. I'll also want to increase your daily prednisone dosage. I'll send off the fluid for testing. That will provide a more definite result than the tests that we have already performed. I have to tell you, we do have the results from you previous tests. You would have been receiving a call later today anyway, but as you are here…" Doctor Howitzer paused. "Your results point to RA, as I am sure you already suspected."

John saw the flinch as it passed over Sherlock's face. **What is he thinking?**

Sherlock's thoughts were not pretty. Despite what he had told John, he hadn't deleted his knowledge of RA and, right now, his thoughts turned to every distressful turn the disease could take. **I'll be useless, was his first thought. Unable to follow leads, chase suspects. Oh God, _my violin._** He let out a shuddering breath then, "Just do it. Remove the fluid."

Doctor Howitzer looked to John apologetically then asked, "Would you mind assisting? My nursing staff…"

John didn't wait for him to finish, "No problem." He smiled in Sherlock's direction. "He can be a bit hard to handle."

Sherlock glared at them both.

* * *

The procedure was _hideous_. Sherlock had to remain still, which was nearly impossible for the tall man. He had had to undress and put on that horrible paper gown. After that, John and doctor Howitzer had positioned him carefully on the examination table, his knee slightly bent. The pinch of the needle entering his knee was sharp and deep. "Breathe, Sherlock," came John's command. So he breathed. It seemed to take forever, but the relief was instant when the procedure was complete.

Doctor Howitzer warned, "Try to relax, the next part is a bit more uncomfortable."

Another needle pierced his skin. This time, Sherlock could feel the fluid as it filled the empty space that had been left in his knee. Yes, it was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The injection stopped far short of filling the complete space that had been engorged just a few minutes before and the needle was removed. **Acceptable.**

"All done," came Doctor Howitzer's reassuring voice. "You can sit up and get dressed. I'll just be right back with that prednisone prescription."

John turned his back as Sherlock dressed. "Better," the blogger asked, concern written into the lines of his face.

"Much," Sherlock replied.

Neither of them were in a mood to talk. The heaviness of Doctor Howitzer's words hung over them both. Your results point to RA.

Doctor Howitzer returned shortly, prescription in hand. "We'll call you as soon as we get the test results. Try not to put too much stress on your knee for the next few days."

Sherlock didn't respond, so it was left to John. "Thanks for everything." He reached out and shook the doctor's hand. Turning to Sherlock, he asked, "Shall we?"

Sherlock nodded once. He was too far lost in his thoughts for anything else.


	4. Chapter 4

The dreaded call had come. Usually, Sherlock would have had to endure another appointment with the Rheumatologist to learn the results of his tests. An exception had been made in his case. More to preserve the peace of the doctor's domain than for Sherlock's benefit, to be sure.

"Rheumatoid Arthritis," Doctor Howitzer had pronounced. The rest of the doctor's words, though recorded within his Mind Palace, were lost for the moment in the buzzing that started in Sherlock's mind. Something was said about aggressive therapy and the self-administration of a medication, a TNF-blocker. Sherlock agreed to everything. He even noted his next appoint, two days from now, on a desk calendar. When the call was ended, he made his way to stare out his favourite window.

John noted the tension in Sherlock's stance. "Who was that, Sherlock?"

"Hmm. You were correct. It's RA." Sherlock's voice sounded flat, unemotional.

"You okay there, mate?"

Sherlock didn't reply, he just continued staring out the window onto the street below.

John dropped the paper he had been reading onto the table and considered his next words. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't admit to anything that hinted at weakness, but bloody hell, the man was human so he had to be feeling _something_. "Listen, Sherlock. Even though we suspected as much, it's still normal to feel shock at hearing the diagnosis. It's okay if you, I don't know, want to yell or something." John forced a smile, "Though I draw the line at shooting the wall."

Sherlock was still completely unresponsive. His face was closed, a carefully bland mask had been crafted and drawn over his face.

Sighing, John rose from where he sat. "How about a cuppa?" It was his default action for times of stress. John went through the ritual of putting the kettle on and, when it had boiled, prepared tea. The entire time, his thoughts swirled around Sherlock and his silence. The man was stubborn, John had to give him that. There would be no forcing him to talk. Not until he was ready.

Silently, John joined Sherlock at the window. He held out the mug of tea and waited. Without glancing his way, Sherlock accepted the drink. "Thank you."

The silence deepened with the passage of time. The men sipped their tea. John waited, willing his presence to offer the comfort that words could not.

"John…" Sherlock still hadn't shifted from his perusal of the street. "What if the medication is ineffective in my case?" A decidedly un-Sherlock-like tremor edged the detective's voice. "I know that I said I deleted everything about the disease." He paused. "I lied."

Despite the situation, John couldn't help laughing softly. "I know."

Finally, Sherlock turned and met John's patient gaze. His very economy of motion disturbed John. Sherlock was meant to be dynamic, a burning fire, not this. On, he could be cold and reserved, but this… It was as if Sherlock's fire had been transformed into something thick and viscous. John recognized it, it was depression. During their time together, it had been obvious that Sherlock had a tendency for depression. The tortured violin could attest to that. This seemed different, deeper.

"Sherlock," John began. This conversation would difficult. He fortified himself against the attack that he know would be forthcoming, then continued. "Since you didn't delete everything, I want you to do something for me, yeah?" John would attempt to engage the other man's intellect.

Sherlock, raised an eyebrow in question.

"You should have the statistics in there for the comorbidity of RA and depression. Tell me what you know and tell me the symptoms of depression." John waited.

The detective began, his usual rapid-fire recital of facts replaced by a slow factual statement of symptoms. "Depression is twice as likely to occur in individuals with RA. In patients diagnosed with both RA and depression, the likelihood of death is again double. Depression is characterized by the following: feelings of helplessness or hopelessness, loss of interest in daily activities, appetite or weight changes, sleep changes, loss of energy, anger or irritability, self-loathing, reckless behaviour, concentration problems, and/or unexplained aches and pains. I'm not depressed."

There was no venom in the last statement. That disturbed John, there should have been biting gall. "Okay Mr. Wikipedia, convince me."

Now some heat entered Sherlock's voice and his speech picked up, "I _never_ feel helplessness or hopelessness. I have never been intimidated by anyone. Loss of interest in daily activities? There is The Work. There has been an appalling lack of cases, however, that is hardly my fault. Concern about my appetite or sleeping habits? Absurd. Likewise for loss of energy. Anger or irritability? I am always irritable, nothing new. You want to know about self-loathing. Nothing that I will discuss. My reckless behaviour perhaps? Nothing new. Concentration problems? My mind is a finely tuned instrument. As for unexplained aches and pains. I. Have. RA. I would not characterize them as unexplained." Sherlock bit the last of hard.

John rolled his head, then decided it was time to press on. "Your analysis is, for once in your life flawed. Let me tell you what I see."

The detective turned to glare out the window once again, but he didn't storm away.

"You don't have to have all of the symptoms to have depression. I know. I've been there. So this is what I see. You said feelings of helplessness or hopelessness. Of course you feel helpless, this disease is beyond your control. You just asked me 'What if the medication doesn't work?' That's feeling helpless, Sherlock. What next, loss of interest in daily activities? No there haven't been any cases, but you haven't been stalking the flat, performing experiments, or torturing your violin. You haven't even been searching for cigarettes. That's loss of interest. I won't argue the point on appetite, but as for sleep changes… Sherlock, you have actually slept the last eight days running. Not just at night, but you curl up on the sofa and you're gone. That indicates loss of energy as well. Yes you're always irritable, but more so of late. And we are going to talk about this 'self-loathing' that you implied later. I won't argue the reckless behaviour either, but concentration problems? I haven't seen you focus on anything in days. I won't argue the pain, either. So that's what," John began counting on his fingers, "seven symptoms." He let that take a moment to sink in. "Now tell me again that you are not depressed."

Sherlock didn't respond except to grasp the edge of the curtain tightly in his right hand.

Again, John let his presence offer what comfort it could. At least Sherlock hadn't made a second denial.

After long moments of silence, Sherlock spoke. "Perhaps."

The one word acknowledgement was more than John had been hoping for. He would take that small victory, for now. He knew it was a minor skirmish won. There would be more battles to come.


	5. Chapter 5

With trepidation, John approached Sherlock who was sitting in his chair. John placed the bottle of antidepressants on the small table next the Sherlock with a click. Without waiting for a reaction, he retreated to his own chair.

Sherlock's baritone rumbled, "No."

A scowl crept onto John's face. "You haven't even looked at it, Sherlock."

"I don't need to. Obvious. Based on our discussion yesterday, it's an SSRI. I'll not have my mind altered by some medication." Sherlock spit out the last word. "My mind is my most prized possession. Without it, what am I?" **Nothing**.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, then breathed in deeply. "Sherlock, you're not thinking clearly. Look at the facts. Your mind has already been altered."

Sherlock glared at him with undisguised disgust.

"No, really. The inflammation in your joints is linked to depression. Take a look at the information you have stored in your Mind Palace. There is a chemical imbalance in your brain. That med that you are so afraid of just _might_ set things back to rights."

Sherlock lifted the bottle from where it sat and scowled at it. "I am not afraid." He opened the bottle and tipped one capsule into the palm of his hand. Sherlock glared at it as if it were Anderson. Finally, in one swift motion, he downed the capsule dry.


	6. Chapter 6

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. The man was simply doing his job. A little restraint would have been called for." John was ready to throttle his flatmate.

Sherlock snarled, " _Doctor_ Howitzer knows my history. Mycroft always sees to that. He makes sure that a little note appears in all of my medical records regarding my past drug use. Surely _Doctor_ Howitzer could deduce for himself that a person capable of shooting up successfully for as long as I did could manage the intricacies of pressing a _button_ on the side of a medicinal delivery device."

John pinched the bridge of his nose rather than punch the git. "Not the point, Sherlock. Speaking as a doctor, I can tell you, liability is an issue."

"The man is still an idiot," Sherlock growled.

"No. He's not. Doctor Howitzer is quite competent in his field. Now leave off." John had had quite enough.

Sherlock redoubled his stride and left John behind. John let him.

His last thought as Sherlock left him in his wake was that at least the man was feeling well enough to leave him behind.

* * *

Three weeks later, Sherlock had injected himself twice using an injection pen. The treatment plan called for an injection every other week. In addition the detective had been prescribed 12.5mg of methotrexate. Unfortunately, he _still_ had to take a heavy dose of prednisone, 50mg.

The medications were taking their toll. First, there had been the inevitable weight gain associated with prednisone. Sherlock had removed his pyjamas one morning in the loo to see several bright vertical red streaks marring the pale skin of his abdomen. They were stretch marks. It was as if the weight had appeared on his body overnight. He had dressed quickly that morning, in sweats, vowing to reduce his caloric intake. The prednisone begged to differ.

Five days later, John was in the kitchen when he heard the sound of shattering glass come from the flat's common area. He rushed in to see if Sherlock was okay. Apparently, Sherlock had thrown the skull at the mirror over the hearth. The detective was breathing raggedly. "What the fuck, Sherlock!"

The other man turned his back on John. "I was put off by the face in the mirror."

"The face..." John began.

Sherlock pivoted and pierced John with a glare.

John realized instantly when he really looked at Sherlock. **Oh. Moon face.** "Sherlock, when you start getting relief from the injections, you'll be able to taper off of the prednisone." John tried to reassure the man. "I swear, you'll get your own face back again."

Sherlock didn't trust himself to respond.

Another week later, and Sherlock found himself standing over a sink full of brunette hair. It seemed as though every time he touched his head, another lock fell out. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight.

John knocked on the door. "Sherlock. I need the loo." A pause. "Sherlock. It's urgent." Still nothing. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The detective found himself opening the door to the loo. He simply stood there, blinking at John.

Discomfited, John tried to determine what was happening. Sherlock looked okay, other than the fact that he was standing and staring. John moved his eyes about the room and spied the hair in the sink. He let out a great sigh. "Just go sit down. I'll be right with you." After taking care of personal matters, John joined Sherlock in the common area.

Taking a seat in his chair, John ran a hand through his hair. "It's the methotrexate that's causing it. We just need to supplement your folic acid intake. I'll bet you've been having muscle cramps as well, yeah?"

Sherlock simply nodded, still looking dazed.

John hated this. He hated RA. He hated the side effects the medications were having. He hated that Sherlock refused to access the vast amount of knowledge that he had stored in his Mind Palace on the disease and medications. He hated Sherlock's depression. He hated whole bloody mess.

John just wanted the old Sherlock back.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was sitting in his leather chair staring at his hands. They were curled tightly into fists and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. Not only that. They hurt. It was a deep ache that radiated up his arms and was accompanied by a fierce painful tingling.

He had made the mistake of trying to force his hands open. The resulting shooting jolts of electricity up his arms sent a wave of nausea through him. Sherlock gasped for breath waiting for his body to return to its previous state. He didn't notice the tears that were welling in his eyes.

When his breathing had returned to normal, his eyes had fallen on his hands. His hateful, useless hands.

* * *

John wandered down from his bedroom still in a morning daze. "Morning." He collapsed in his chair, not quite ready to face the day. Sherlock's silence was not particularly worrying, he was often silent in the morning.

The doctor turned on the telly and searched for something mindless to watch. He was debating breakfast, but couldn't be arsed to move. John settled on the news, maybe there would be a case. Something to pull Sherlock out of his black mood.

When several stories went by with no comment from the detective, John glanced his way. That's when he noticed the direction of the detective's gaze. He followed Sherlock's line of sight down to his hands. Every joint appeared to be painfully swollen. **Fuck.** He leapt out of his chair and was by his friend's side in moments. "How bad is it?"

Sherlock was unresponsive.

"Sherlock," John tried again, "look at me."

This time, the detective acknowledged him. "I can't open them." He sounded broken.

"I'll get your meds and some hot water. We'll soak your hands and see if that helps." John forced himself to sound confident. He did just as he stated.

The detective opened his mouth and accepted his morning medications. He swallowed them down with the proffered water and a huge dose of humiliation.

John sat a table in front of the detective and placed a bowl of steaming hot water on top. "If it's too hot wait a bit, but I want you to start soaking your hands as soon as you can stand it."

Sherlock tentatively tested the water with one hand then plunged both fists into the water with a hiss. Slowly the pain abated. "You are a genius, John."

The doctor smiled. "I never thought I would hear that from you. Let me know when the water starts to cool."

The detective tried to flex his fingers and there was a bit of give. He waited. The water cooled. Sherlock let John know and the doctor replaced it with fresh. They repeated this cycle for the better part of an hour. At last, the detective could open his hands freely, though not entirely without pain.

"Better," John asked.

"Surprisingly so." Sherlock marvelled at his hands. "They still hurt."

"Yeah." The doctor sighed. "I know you're tired of hearing it, but we have to give the injections more time. Until then, well things like this will happen. _Please_ come get me when they do."

"I promise." Sherlock meant it sincerely. "I would have been lost without you today."

John gave him one of his golden smiles. "Remember that, you git."


	8. Chapter 8

It had been against John's better judgment but they had gone out on a case. It was a simple three on Sherlock's scale. That eased the doctor's mind some, as long as it didn't escalate.

No one said a word as the detective limped onto the crime scene. Lestrade had informed each and every officer of Sherlock's condition and had further gone on to threaten suspension for the officer that made a snarky comment about it. Still, Sherlock felt the pressure of eyes on him as he surveyed the scene.

The detective kept his hands in his pockets since they were locked into fists again. "John, would you..." He trailed off as the doctor moved to his side and assisted him in dropping to the ground to better examine the corpse. Quietly, he muttered, "Thank you."

John flashed him a smile. "So, what do you see?"

Sherlock pulled a fisted hand from his pocket and indicated the victim's left hand. "Please."

John lifted the indicated hand closer to the detective's observant eyes.

"Over," Sherlock directed.

The doctor flipped the hand, allowing Sherlock to examine the victim's fingernails.

Satisfied with what he saw, he indicated that John could replace the victim's hand. An indentation at the edge of the victim's nose caught his eye. Sherlock started to move closer but stopped as pain shot through his knees and hips.

John noticed his friend's sharp intake of breath and the thin line of his lips pressed together against the pain. "Tell me what to look for."

Sherlock nodded his gratitude. "Indentations around her nose. Describe them."

Dipping down for a better look, John described what he saw. "Hmm. The indentations wrap around, almost in the shape that an oxygen mask would make."

Instantly, a light came on in Sherlock's eyes. Knowing that the case was solved, John moved to assist the detective to his feet. Sherlock let out a groan of pain as he stood to his full height.

Concern in his eyes, Lestrade asked. "Well what do we have?" He would never bring attention to Sherlock's affliction at a crime scene.

The detective wore a self-pleased, if tired smile. "Overweight female, mid-forties. Suffers from sleep apnoea. Poisoned by her live in lover. Her mask for the CPAP machine was in place for a long period after death, hence the indentations. Check the water reservoir of her CPAP machine for an inhaled toxin."

"You heard him. Get on it." Lestrade's tone brooked no discussion.

As the team dispersed to act on the new information, Sally Donovan approached. She stopped just a few feet away from Sherlock. "Freak," she began, her tone softer than normal.

"Sally..." Greg warned.

She glanced at the DI. "It's not like that. This is important." Sally returned her attention to the tall man. "My aunt had Rheumatoid Arthritis. She didn't take care of herself." Sally made sure that she had Sherlock's attention. "She died at forty-eight." She held up her hand to forestall John's objection. "Take care of yourself Freak. Do what your doctor tells you. I know that the medications have improved. Take them." Surprising herself, Sally gave him a gentle embrace. When she let go, they exchanged awkward looks. She cleared her throat then backed away. "You'll do alright, Freak."

As she walked away, Sherlock, John, and Greg exchanged bemused glances. The DI shrugged. "Well, that was… unexpected."

"How about you lay off the insults for a couple of cases, yeah?" John almost slapped his friend on the back, but caught himself before jarring him with the inevitable pain such a move would bring.

The detective squinted after her. "Hmm."

"Go on, we can take it from here," Greg assured them both.

They made their way to the street to hail a cab, Sally's words echoing the whole way within Sherlock's Mind Palace.


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a simple case, but it had taken its toll on Sherlock. He was aching throughout his entire body and completely frustrated by the fact. In addition, he had lost all faith that the injections would provide relief. It was John's call for patience that was keeping him from surrendering completely to a deep seated despair.

Feeling a deep exhaustion, Sherlock contemplated his bed with trepidation. Rather than a peaceful retreat, it had become a place of nightly torture. He briefly considering calling John for help as he struggled to unbutton his shirt, but fumbled his way through on his own. The detective toed off his shoes and managed to remove his trousers. He didn't bother with pyjamas, it was too much effort so he climbed into bed in his pants.

Within five minutes, Sherlock's hips and shoulders were demanding his full attention. It felt as though rebar were being driven through his shoulders into the mattress beneath him and every small shift in position magnified the pain in his hips. Rolling on his side was out of the question, he had tried that on a previous occasion and the compression on his joints had been agonizing. Instead, the detective gingerly rolled onto his stomach, allowing his left arm to hang from the bed. Though it was an ungainly position, it provided a modicum of relief. Not fifteen minutes later, the pain was back in full force. He shifted to the far side of the bed and repeated the position with his right arm, again gaining a small measure of relief. This time, when the pain returned, he sat up with a groan.

Sherlock had a flash of inspiration. Remembering how John had had him soak his hands in hot water, he made his way to the loo. Once there, he ran a tub of water as hot as he could stand it and settled his body into the warmth. Slowly, the heat worked its magic and he began to relax. The pain wasn't driven from his body, but it was brought down to a tolerable level.

"Sherlock?" John's voice called from beyond the door to the loo. "Are you taking a bath? It's two o'clock in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep." The water had grown noticeably cooler so the detective opened the drain. The thought of returning to his bed was untenable so he decided to refill the tub as soon as it was empty. "Too much pain."

John shuffled from foot to foot just beyond the door. "Did you take all of your meds?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John!"

"Right. Are you planning to stay in there all night?" The doctor's voice was full of concern and it only increased at the sound of tap water running again. "I'm coming in." He tested the door and found it to be unlocked. "You've turned into a giant prune." John took in Sherlock's drawn face at a glance. "If you're going to marinate in hot water all night, you can't stay by yourself. You might fall asleep. It's just too dangerous. I'll be right back." The doctor retrieved his latest book purchase and a cushion for his back.

The detective was hurting far too much to deduce his flatmate at the moment, so he simply asked, "John, what are you doing?"

"I said you can't stay by yourself. We could be here for some time, so…" John lifted the book in his hand. "It's 'A Game of Thrones'. I haven't started reading it yet." The doctor eyed the thickness of the book. "It might be long enough to get us through a few hours, yeah?" The doctor found a comfortable position and started reading aloud.

By this time, the tub was full again and Sherlock had lowered himself as deeply into the water as he could. He focused on John's voice and concentrated on blocking out the pain.


	10. Chapter 10

When John returned to the flat, he was carrying a box under his arm. He also had a very pleased smile on his face.

Sherlock lifted his head carefully where he sat in his chair. It had been a long, painful, boring day. He had hurt too badly to do much of anything except watch crap telly and he had, as a result, dropped into a black mood. He found the look on his friends face to be irritating in that it implied a level of activity and _satisfaction_ that the detective felt he would never achieve again.

For just a moment, Sherlock wished that John could experience what he was feeling. It was a dark thought, unworthy of the detective. As soon as he realized that what he was thinking, a rare wave of guilt swept over him. He was horrified that he had whished this experience on his good friend even for a moment. John was all that was keeping Sherlock going at this point, without him, the detective might very well give up entirely.

"Oi! Sherlock. I bought you a surprise while I was out." John's voice was filled with caring which made the detective cringe once again with guilt. Not waiting for a response, the doctor sat in his chair and opened the box. He pulled out an oval shaped tub which trailed an electrical cord. Unwrapping it, he pulled four large blocks of wax from the tub's opening.

With a puzzled frown, Sherlock gingerly sat forward in his chair. "What is all of that?" The detective waved in the direction of the tub and wax with his aching hand.

Now a smug look settled onto John's face. "I thought you might already know, you seem to know everything else. It's a paraffin bath." The doctor continued to explain since the detective's look of puzzlement hadn't cleared. "One of my old girlfriends described the process to me once. This tub melts the wax then, when it is at the correct temperature, you dip your hand into it. That makes a coating that is supposed to keep your hands feeling soft and supple. You don't just dip your hand in once though. As each layer cools, you keep dipping your hand into the wax until you've made a 'glove' so to speak. I remember her saying that the heat lingered for a very long time and felt remarkably relaxing. I visited a salon today and tried it. She was absolutely right. I think this will make an excellent replacement for the bowl of water that we have been using."

Now Sherlock felt even guiltier and to make matters worse, he was feeling _that feeling_ again. He had managed to hide this new phenomenon from John up until now but no more. Once it began there was no stopping it and it had begun.

Sherlock's heart was racing, his stomach was roiling. He could actually see his own hands shaking, which was probably a good thing or he would have been trying to claw his too-tight-feeling skin from his arms. He even felt as though something was squeezing his chest, restricting his breathing. It was insufferable. But the worst was the unfounded sense of terror. A dread so deep and heavy that he could barely move beneath its weight. All that he wanted was to escape but the world was closing in upon him, unforgiving and harsh in its distorted reality.

Instantly, John was knelt in front of the detective. For the first time in his life, he was thankful for his experience with PTSD and, hence, panic attacks. John didn't touch his friend, but kept a safe distance between them and started talking in a quiet reassuring tone of voice. "Sherlock, you're having a panic attack. I don't know if you've had them before or not, but it's okay. Right now, your only job is to breathe. Can you do that for me?"

The detective's eyes were shut tightly against the world. He latched onto John's voice as an anchor and a small nod.

"Right. Breathe in with me. Out. In. Out." John spaced the breaths a count of two apart, slowly extending the spacing to a count of four and then six. He could visibly see the panic attack subsiding in his friend, but didn't rush. The doctor knew from long experience that it was all too easy to slip back into the grip of the panic.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, a look of shame painted on his face. "I'm sorry John. I don't know what happened. Everything suddenly became too much." The detective raised his arm and covered his face, effectively hiding from his friend.

John understood. He had never been comfortable knowing that, when he woke from his nightmares, Sherlock inevitably _knew_. There had been months of awkwardness before the doctor had been able to accept even that minor show of vulnerability. For such a proud man as Sherlock to not only experience a panic attack, but to have John be witness to it had to be excruciating. "It was a simple panic attack. Well, nothing about panic attacks is simple, but you know what I mean. It's nothing to be ashamed of. With everything you're going through, I'm not too surprised that this happened." Sherlock huffed with disdain. "No, really. You've had control of your life stripped from you. Your own body has betrayed you. It's no wonder you are feeling a loss of control. We can handle this, though."

With hesitating movements, John reached out and gingerly touched Sherlock's arm. When the other man failed to flinch or pull away, the doctor gently moved the detective's arm away from his face so that he could meet the other man's eyes. "You don't have to do this alone, I promise you. I'll be right here." With that, John raised up and, ever so gently so as not to hurt Sherlock's joints, pulled Sherlock into an embrace and repeated "I'll be right here."


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft had halted just inside the door of 221B, his eyes resting on his brother's form. Sherlock was sitting in his leather chair, his head tilted back and eyes closed. Resting across his knees was his violin, the bow was nowhere in sight. Even though Mycroft had been warned by John, the physical changes in Sherlock were startling. His brother was heavier than he had ever before been and his face was puffy and rounded. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to acknowledge Mycroft's presence with a cutting remark.

Sherlock started when the older Holmes brother called his name. "Mycroft." His voice sounded two-dimensional and lacked its customary richness.

Mycroft made his way to his brother's side. He reached out and gently removed the violin from its resting place and carefully returned it to its case. "You shouldn't torture yourself this way, brother mine." He was actually relieved when Sherlock shot him a sullen glare – it was a brief glimpse of the brother for whom he cared so deeply.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to leap to his feet and turn his back on his brother's observant eyes, but he hurt too badly for such dramatics. He waved his hand in his brother's general direction. "I don't feel like doing this, Mycroft. Just go away."

Sitting in John's chair, Mycroft rubbed his temple but otherwise demonstrated no other sign of distress. "I merely wish to know how you are faring. John is concerned."

As if conjured by the use of his name, the doctor entered the flat. Sherlock's eyes shot in his direction then found their way back to his brother. "Yesss, you are both so worried about my welfare."

John noted the coldness of his voice and the viciousness of his snarl. He hadn't seen the man act in such a manner since the incident at Baskerville. The loathing in the man's voice had been directed at himself on that occasion. It was no different this time.

"I'll tell you exactly how I'm faring, Mycroft." Now Sherlock's words came rapid-fire. "I hurt all of the time. If I move, stabbing jolts of pain shoot through my joints. If I don't move, I grow stiff and the aching seeps into each joint, driving me mad! I can't play. I can't type. I can't even pursue The Work. So, what is the point of me? What do the doctors do? They shove pills at me. Little white pills that make me eat and eat and eat until I don't know myself when I look into a mirror. They make me feel like my skin is crawling with anxiety. I'm depressed. Yes, I admit it! And the answer? Another bloody pill! Toying with my mind, changing the way I think. But wait! There's more! Once a week, I take the yellow pills. They make my hair fall out and my legs cramp at night. The doctors push _here_ with their medicine and another symptom comes out _there_." He was breathing hard and showed no signs of stopping. "So, yet another pill for that. Then there's the pointless shots. They're not working! I get worse every day. So, if I am going to feel _this way_ for the rest of my life, then what's the point? Why not end the pain now!? Tell me, Mycroft!"

Sherlock was standing in from of his brother, gaping in horror at what he had just revealed. The other two men were frozen with shock.

The detective began moving toward his bedroom. This broke the momentary spell that had fallen over Mycroft and John. The doctor moved faster than Mycroft and grasped Sherlock by the arm. The tall man shook him off just at the threshold to his room. Taking a few more steps, he collapsed painfully onto his bed and curled into the foetal position.

John knelt down beside the bed. He tried not to be hurt by all that Sherlock had said – he knew that the man was in pain and was lashing out blindly. Mycroft had followed and was standing in the doorway. "Sherlock…" Mycroft began. The detective pulled a pillow over his head. His brother reached and ripped it away.

Making a swift decision, Mycroft spoke. "You _will_ be receiving therapy." Sherlock already resented him for so much, he reasoned, so what did it matter if his brother hated him for this as well so long as Sherlock was kept alive.

As the detective huffed out an angry sound, John turned a frustrated look on Mycroft. "Easy. Don't push."

"Where my brother's life is concerned, I will gladly 'push' as you say." Mycroft's tone was hard and uncompromising.

The doctor shot to his feet. "I am just as concerned about Sherlock as you are. Just show a bit of compassion." John's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Sherlock spoke, his voice full of disdain. "Mycroft doesn't know the meaning of the word. He's nothing more than a bully."

Not showing how much the words hurt, Mycroft pressed on with the remainder of his ultimatum. "You have a simple choice to make. You will either be checked into a mental health facility for treatment or I will arrange for a therapist to come here to 221B."

Sherlock uncurled stiffly from where he lay. He had expected to be whisked away within the day as he had been when taken to rehab. "What do you mean?"

A small, sad smile made its way onto Mycroft's face. "It's quite simple. If you can look me in the eyes… No. If you can look John in the eyes and swear that you will not take your own life, then you can remain here. Provided, of course, that you cooperate with the therapist that I select."

Sherlock simply stared at his brother for several long moments. He had no intention of killing himself, not really. It was just that the thought flitted through his mind when the pain was at its worst. The detective shifted his gaze to John's face. "John, I promise you, I won't kill myself. I would never do that."

John watched his friend with intensity, taking in his every word. "I believe you mean that right now. But what about later? Bloody hell!" The doctor ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I won't leave you by yourself, you understand that."

Sherlock made a sound of assent.

Seemingly as cool as ever, Mycroft spoke. "I will arrange for a therapist to see to Sherlock starting tomorrow. In addition, there will be a genetic test performed to determine the optimal medications to treat his depression and anxiety."

John interrupted. "They can do that?"

"Yes, John. You should keep up with medical advances." Mycroft's expression shifted into a smirk. "I also suggest that Sherlock see Doctor Howitzer. The injectable is an amazing medication, but it is clearly not working in Sherlock's case.

John let out a long sigh. "I was going to suggest that anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust. "I am still in the room."

The expression on Mycroft's face was bleak. "Yes… So, are we agreed?"

John was worried. He didn't want this responsibility. He didn't want to hold Sherlock's life in his hands, but who else was there, he wondered – no one. "Yes."

As for Sherlock, he felt trapped. He had revealed his darkest thoughts in an unguarded, unreasoned outburst. Now he had to live with the consequences. "Yes."

Their agreement sat uneasy in the room, but it was there. They would face the future together, one day at a time.


	12. Chapter 12

It had been a long night. John had slept in his chair in the living room and he was therefore quite stiff and sore. Sleeping upstairs had been out of the question. He wanted to be close to Sherlock, just in case.

At the doctor's insistence, Sherlock had slept with his door open. The detective had been visibly agitated at the suggestion, but John had refused to relent saying, "Until your mood improves, you're going to have to make some concessions. If you don't, I'll call Mycroft and have him check you into a mental health facility. This isn't something you fuck around with."

Sherlock had made a typically acerbic response. "You sat alone day in and day out in your bedsit when we first met and you're still here. I don't see the difference and I don't need a babysitter."

Without meaning to, John had raised his voice. "The difference is that you have someone who cares about you. If I had had that, maybe I wouldn't have sat there with my gun in my hands. You have absolutely no idea how close I was to putting it to my head and pulling the trigger. So forgive me if I care."

Though unplanned, the doctor's outburst achieved what so called _reason_ had been unable to accomplish. Sherlock acquiesced to John's demands, going so far as to leave the door to the loo unlocked when he attended to his body's needs.

It was getting on late in the morning and the therapist would be arriving within the hour. John stood and stretched, deciding to check on his flatmate before getting dressed. He padded to Sherlock's open bedroom door. "Sherlock, you need to get up. The therapist will be here soon."

"You could have slept on the sofa." The detective's baritone sounded from the darkened room. "I'm sure you will regret torturing you shoulder very soon."

John was already massaging his shoulder, seeking relief from its stiffness. "Right. Anyway, I'm getting dressed. Call if you need me." He waited a moment, but, receiving no response, continued on his way.

Upon returning to the living room, John found Sherlock in his pyjamas and dressing gown lying on the sofa. He gave a great sigh of frustration when he saw the time - the therapist would be there any moment. "I see you're wearing your best for this meeting."

Just as the detective began his retort, the buzzer sounded announcing the therapist's arrival. John stepped to the door of the flat and opened it, greeting the therapist as she started up the stairs. "Doctor Peugh, won't you come in." He held out his hand and the blonde woman shook it. "I'm Doctor Watson, but call me John." The doctor jerked his head toward the flat. "Sherlock's waiting inside. I'm afraid he's in a bit of a mood."

The therapist smiled as she took in John's form. "Well that's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but... well you'll see. Just try not to take anything he says personally." John's expression was pre-emptively apologetic.

As they stepped into the flat, John addressed his flatmate. "Sherlock, this is Doctor Peugh."

With utmost reluctance, the detective sat upright on the sofa. He acknowledged the therapist's presence with a sullen nod. Just as he was about to spout off his deductions about the woman, John forestalled him with a gesture and the single word, "Don't." The glare that had been reserved for Doctor Peugh fell on John instead but the man didn't flinch. "Right, then. I'll just step out for a bit."

Before John could grab his coat, Sherlock spoke up. "Stay. Please." His expression was caught somewhere between petulance and desperation.

John gave Doctor Peugh a questioning look.

The therapist gave him a small smile. "It's fine with me if you stay."

With a nod to himself, John took a seat nervously on the sofa. Somehow this didn't feel so far away from his own experience with his own therapist and yet it also felt a million miles away, this was for Sherlock, after all. _Sherlock_ of all people. He chased the thought out of his mind, knowing it wouldn't benefit the situation beyond distracting him.

Doctor Peugh spoke as she dug some forms from her briefcase. "I've been filled in on the basics of your situation, so we don't need to waste time on preliminaries. Instead, I would like to have you fill out this questionnaire." Sherlock's opinion of the exercise was written loudly on his face. "It may seem pointless to you, but it will tell me a lot about what you've been through in the past year and your current state of mind."

Still not speaking, Sherlock took the proffered questionnaire and pen. His scowl deepened as he scanned over the questions.

 _How many times in the last year have you:_

 _Suffered a significant illness or injury?_

 _Had more or less trouble with your boss?_

 _Experienced changes in sleeping pattern?_

 _..._

The detective threw the questionnaire and pen onto the coffee table. "Absurd. Pointless."

"Sherlock," John warned.

With an audible huff to show his displeasure, the detective retrieved the pen and questionnaire and began filling it out.

As the detective worked, Doctor Peugh turned her attentions on John. "I wonder, would you mind filling out this questionnaire?" She held it toward him. "It's normally filled out by a parent or spouse, but I understand that you two are close friends. It would really help in getting an accurate picture of the situation."

John shifted nervously, but took the questionnaire and set to completing it.

After just a few minutes, both men had completed their tasks. Sherlock tossed his questionnaire onto the table while his flatmate placed his down gently. Doctor Peugh read over each man's responses and tallied up the numbers.

Shaking her head, Doctor Peugh addressed the detective. "These questionnaires are designed to measure the amount of stress that you have been under in the last year. A score of 300 or higher indicates an extremely high level of stress. Sherlock, your score was 764. John's score for you was significantly higher at 926. Either way, the amount of stress that you've been under is extreme. We need to do something to mitigate that."

When Sherlock once again failed to respond, John asked his own question. "Why were our scores so disparate?"

"You gave different values for several questions. The one that I am the most curious about is this one: How many times in the last year have you suffered a serious illness or injury? Sherlock responded with one whereas you indicated five." Her look was genuinely puzzled. "Usually, the discrepancy comes in over more subjective questions. But this one is rather concrete. Would either one of you care to explain?"

Sherlock wore a look of placidity which irritated his flatmate. John pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking. "Seriously? You didn't count the stabbings or the concussion, did you?" A slow shrug was the detective's only response.

Doctor Peugh looked from one man to the other with a stunned look if disbelief. "Excuse me?"

Now Sherlock wore a satisfied smirk. "The Work, obviously."

"He's a consulting detective, in case Mycroft left that bit out," John hastened to explain. "We see our fair share of danger as a result."

Her mouth making a silent, "Oh," Doctor Peugh busied herself putting away their completed questionnaires. "I didn't realise..." She broke off that thought then began again. "Anyway, I would like to discuss relaxation techniques as a way of dealing with stress."

"Boring." Sherlock stood gingerly and fled the room, ignoring the pain in his joints.

John and Doctor Peugh were left looking at one another in the wake of the detective's flight.

"Christ. I'm so sorry. Actually, I'm surprised you got that much cooperation out of him." John sounded tired and defeated.

Doctor Peugh gave him an understanding smile. "I am too, quite honestly. I was warned what to expected." She handed John some papers. "See if you can get him to at least try one of these techniques before I come back in two days." Leaning forward, she gave John's knee a pat. "It wouldn't hurt for you to try some of them yourself."

Shifting to move her hand from where it now lay, John swallowed awkwardly. "Right." He cleared his throat. "What about the DNA sample?"

"Oh yes, I had forgotten about that." She retrieved a kit from her briefcase then hesitated. "You're a doctor. Would you mind?" She handed the kit to John. "He might be more receptive to you taking the sample."

 **She forgot.** John decided there and then that Mycroft had selected the wrong therapist. She had been doing fine up until that, ignoring Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm, but he couldn't ignore her absentmindedness in the face of her clear attraction to him. Her touch on his knee had been highly inappropriate. Mycroft would have to find a replacement.

That didn't mean he would forego taking the DNA sample. It was better to get that process started now. He had reached his flatmate's bedroom door. "Sherlock? I just need to swab you cheek."

The detective sat up on his bed, a surly expression on his face. "Get on with it." He dropped his jaw and allowed John to collect the DNA sample. Once his friend had finished the procedure, Sherlock crossed his arms sulkily. "Get rid of her. She's completely incompetent."

"She's not that bad," John admonished, "but I'll talk to Mycroft. There has to be someone more suitable." He returned to the living room and handed the DNA kit to Doctor Peugh. "I'll see if I can get Sherlock to cooperate, but I'm not holding out much hope."

"That's all anyone can do, try." She smiled suggestively at John, but he ignored it and walked her the few steps to the door. "I'll see you in a couple of days then."

"Right. See you then." John gladly closed the door on her retreating form thinking; **not if I can help it.** He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft. There had to be a better fit for Sherlock, one that wouldn't concentrate her attention on John.


	13. Chapter 13

Doctor Howitzer will see Sherlock tomorrow, 10:30 - MH

 **Well there's that taken care of. Thank goodness for Mycroft.**

Those were words that John had never thought he would say, well think. He had completely forgotten that Sherlock was to have called for an appointment with his rheumatologist and there was no chance that the detective would remember, not in the state he was in.

John sighed. **Now what?** His eyes roamed the room until they lit upon his copy of The Princess Bride. An old girlfriend had made him watch it and he had actually enjoyed the movie enough to buy a copy. He wondered, idly, what Sherlock would make of The Battle of Wits. Even in his current condition, surely he would see the parallel to his meeting with the homicidal cabbie. Would he cast a sidelong glance toward John and keep silent or would he up his criticism of the movie tenfold? It was something to do to pass the time. John grabbed the movie and his laptop and made his way to Sherlock's room.

The doctor forced a chipper tone of voice. "You up for a bit of company?"

"Go away." Sherlock's voice was muffled by his pillow.

"Not happening." John settled down on the vacant portion of the bed, propping himself up with the other pillow.

As the doctor opened his laptop and started the movie, the detective begrudgingly pushed himself to a sitting position. He didn't want company. He didn't want to watch an inevitably inane movie. He didn't want to do much of anything. Sherlock knew what he was putting his friend through, though. He would endure it all for John.

The movie played and Sherlock criticised it in his mind, he couldn't be bothered to say anything out loud. Until, that is, Vizzini kept saying "Inconceivable." He finally burst out, "He's using that word wrong! Honestly. The writers were clearly imbeciles."

John didn't say a word, he simply muffled his laughter.

Finally, Inigo said, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." Sherlock's mouth made a silent "Oh" and he blushed. John laughed out loud, shaking the bed.

The detective's joints were jarred by the movement, but he suppressed a grimace. It was nice to see John laugh for a change. Sherlock felt a momentary lightening of heart. After that, Sherlock made a point to voice his criticisms out loud. His complaints grew intentionality more ludicrous with each scene. Soon, it became difficult to outdo his previous complaints. The detective caught himself smiling. He couldn't remember the last time he had done that.

Abruptly, John grew still. There was an air of expectation about him. Sherlock pinned him with a glare. "What?"

"Nothing. Just keep watching the movie."

The detective didn't believe John's "Nothing." It obviously meant just the opposite. He returned his attention to the movie.

As Vizzini fell over dead, Sherlock pursed his lips and shot John a sidelong glance. Westley spoke. "They were both poisoned. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder."

The movie continued to play, neither man speaking. Finally, John couldn't stand it, he paused the movie. "Well?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock was wearing his most innocent expression, which was to say, not very.

"The iocane powder. The bloody pills. You _do_ know they were both poison, right?" John was glaring at Sherlock.

"Really, John. Have you been brooding on this all this time?" Sherlock was doing his best to sound offended.

The doctor gave a huff. "At least I wouldn't have taken the bloody pill!"

"Neither did I."

"Because I shot the cabbie!" John was actually beginning to get angry with the man and it felt... good. Sherlock wasn't moping about for a change.

"Thank you." The detective paused, considering. "I would have. Taken it, I mean. So, thank you."

John was stunned into silence. He gave Sherlock a small smile, then, clearing his throat, started the movie playing again.

Each man was lost in thought for a time, contemplating the bizarre road that had brought them here. Two friends, one struggling with RA and its effects, the other struggling as he watched his friend in pain.

Eventually, Sherlock tried to regain the light-hearted mood of earlier and began criticising the movie once again. In recognition of his efforts, John fired back his own rebuttal. The mood in the room lightened in short order.

As the credits rolled up the screen, Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That has to be the most frivolous piece of fluff that I have ever been forced to watch."

"It's a classic, Sherlock. You're meant to watch it as an escape." The exasperation was thick in John's voice.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "I stand by what I said. It was a frivolous piece of fluff." He held his composure a moment longer before smiling. "And I enjoyed it thoroughly. Of course, if you tell anyone I said that, your body will never be found."

John's reply was fondly exasperated. "You git. Your secret is safe with me."

The detective's manner grew serious and he looked down, away from John's gaze. "I know it's been difficult. I'm not easy to live with at the best of times. I don't know why you stay, but I couldn't do this without you." Sherlock's voice broke. "It's just so hard..." He couldn't express what he felt, how each day was a challenge just to continue.

John's hand slipped over his where it lay on the duvet. "I know it's hard, Sherlock. If I could take this all away I would." He wanted to squeeze his friend's hand, but stopped himself, not wanting to cause undue pain. "I stay because you're my friend and I care about you. There's no one that means more to me. I'll always be here for you. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, but he steadfastly ignored the tears that were pooling in his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning was difficult. When Sherlock woke, he was stiff all over. He had to move slowly, working his joints as best he could, one at a time, until he was able to rise. It had taken him ten minutes just to get out of bed and he resented it. He resented everything this morning, everything except John.

After bathing (a long soak in hot water) and managing to get dressed, the detective joined John in the living room. A glass of water, toast and medications were waiting for him by his chair. Resignedly, he sat and made short work of all three. They chatted about mundane things, well mundane to them: the latest mysterious deaths, baffling robberies and one curious case of plague. After some time, the doctor folded his paper and looked meaningfully at the clock. If there were going to make it to the rheumatologist in time, they would need to be leaving soon. Sherlock sighed then tried to stand. He hissed as pain shot through his knees.

"Here," John said as he offered his hands in support. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the necessity, but allowed him to place his hands under his arms and help him to his feet. "Well, at least I'm good for something," John quipped.

"You're good for quite a lot." Sherlock plastered a smile on his face. John deserved a smile, though the detective didn't feel like doing it.

"Yeah, I know. I'm your conductor of light." John helped him on with his coat then held the door to the flat open. It was so very hard not to hover as the detective negotiated the stairs. It was plain that every movement hurt Sherlock. The detective was moving sideways, placing both feet on each step before moving onward. The doctor let out a small sigh of relief when Sherlock reached the foyer. All that was left were the steps leading from the front door down to the pathway.

John opened the door and heard the detective mutter under his breath. A black sedan was waiting by the kerb. Sherlock bent his head, looking at the ground. His shoulders hunched in seeming defeat as he began moving towards the car. It was a measure of the detective's discomfort that he allowed John to open the back door to the car and got into it. Silence was their companion for the duration of the ride.

At the rheumatologist's office, they didn't have to wait long – Mycroft, of course – but while they waited, John helped the detective fill out some forms.

"Just give me a number from 1-5 for how difficult it is to do these things, 1 being easy and 5 being difficult" John ordered taking pen and paper in hand.

Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Go ahead."

They made their way through the list:

Dress yourself including shoelaces and buttons – 5

Shampoo your hair – 5

Stand up from a straight chair – 5

Get in and out of bed – 4

"Right, now can you do these things," John said.

Sherlock glanced at the paper and let out a huff. He was losing patience with the whole thing. It was tedious. "John, you know the answers to these. Just," he moved to wave a hand but thought the better of it, "Please."

The doctor sighed then went down the list:

Cut your meat – no

Lift a full glass to your mouth – yes

Open a new milk carton – no

Walk outdoors on flat ground – yes

Climb 5 steps – yes

Go down five steps – yes

Walk on uneven ground – no

Wash and dry your body – yes

Take a tub bath – yes

Get on and off the toilet – yes

Bend down to pick up clothing from the floor – no

Open car doors – no

Open previously opened jars – no

Turn faucets on and off – yes

Are you stiff in the morning – yes

When you wake up in the morning, do you ache – yes

Sherlock leaned over and looked at the form with a frown. It was fairly depressing. He kept reading over the doctor's shoulder.

John flipped through the paperwork and found information on a new medication. The information wouldn't normally be given to a patient ahead of time like this, but John was a doctor and Mycroft was, well Mycroft, so these things happened.

There was a brief explanation of how the medication worked.

"This medication blocks the action of a protein in the body called tumour necrosis factor-alpha (TNF-alpha). TNF-alpha is made by your body's immune system. People with certain diseases have too much TNF-alpha that can cause the immune system to attack normal healthy parts of the body. It can block the damage caused by too much TNF-alpha."

They both kept reading and found that testing for TB would be required prior to starting on the medication. It would be administered through an IV and would talk about 2 hours at 0, 2, and 6 weeks, then every week thereafter. There was an alarming mention of the risk of cancer associated with it, not to mention the other possible side-effects.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock being potentially subjected to any of the side effects, but he liked the idea of him suffering even less and this drug… it offered him a good chance of going into remission.

"Stop thinking, John," Sherlock rumbled tiredly. "I've already made up my mind. It wasn't a very difficult decision to make. If I can't get my life back, what good is it to me? It's worth the risks."

Looking at the detective, John heartily agreed. All that was left was talking to the doctor and arranging to get started.


	15. Chapter 15

After talking with the doctor, Sherlock had had a tuberculin skin test placed. The detective had rolled his eyes at the time it was placed and huffed. "I don't have TB, John. This entire process is a complete waste of time."

"And you know this, how?" John asked. "You may be a deductive genius, but you're not a doctor and you don't have some special super power that would tell you if you were infected with TB. I don't want to belabour the point, but you haven't always made the wisest decisions. Some of your habits and choices put you at higher risk than normal, not to mention that you've travelled to areas were TB is more common. It wouldn't matter anyway. You need this test before you can have the new medication."

Sherlock rolled his sleeve back down and held out his arm so that John could button his cuff. He was so tired of relying on someone for such little things. John stepped up to the chair and held his arms out towards the detective who let the other man help him to his feet. He hadn't even been sitting five minutes and already his knees were getting stiff.

John's phone pinged. It was a text from Lestrade asking them to drop by the Yard. The doctor bit his lip frowning. Sherlock wasn't up for a case right now, Greg knew that, so if he was texting it must be serious. He shook his head. Nope. Sherlock's health came first. If it was important enough, the DI would call. John picked up Sherlock's coat and held it up to help him put it on.

"It was Lestrade," the detective stated flatly as he allowed himself to be assisted. "What did he want?"

"He asked if we'd stop by the Yard." John walked by his friend as they began to make their way from the lab and out to where Mycroft's car would, no doubt, be waiting for them.

"You didn't answer," Sherlock noted.

John held a door open for the detective. "Nope. And I'm not going to. He knows how to call if it's an emergency."

They climbed into the car and it started for Baker Street without them having to ask. Sherlock stared out the window. His last case had proved exhausting, but he could feel his brain rotting. "I want to go."

Turning his head, John looked at his friend. "To the Yard?" He sighed. Part of him wanted to wrap Sherlock up in cotton and keep him safe, keep him from hurting, but he knew that was ridiculous. He would never put it in words, but he knew even this latest medicine might not be the magic bullet that the detective needed. This, the way things were right now, could be as good as things ever got. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was a realistic one. Sherlock couldn't be expected to live life as a hermit. "Take us to New Scotland Yard," he told the driver as he pulled out his mobile. It began to ring in his hand: Lestrade. He swiped his finger across the screen to answer the call and put the phone to his ear.

Lestrade's voice sounded strained. "John, where have you been?! You haven't answered any of my texts."

"Greg, you sound just like Sherlock. Calm down. We were at one of his appointments. We're on our way." The doctor glanced at Sherlock. "You could have called him, you know."

"Yeah," Greg said, "and have you to answer to? No, thanks. I'll run cases by you first until you give the all clear. How is he, anyway?" John hesitated long enough to worry the DI. "That bad," Greg said sadly. "Look. This case was taken away from Gregson and dumped in my lap. It's going on 17 days since the murder and the pressure to solve the case is already building. I'll have everything waiting in my office. And tell him, well, 'thanks' won't mean anything. Just tell him to get his arse down here. It means the same thing anyway."

"Will do," John replied and ended the call. He gave his friend a smile. "Greg said that you should, and I quote, 'Get his arse down here.'"

For the first time that day, Sherlock offered the doctor a genuine smile.


	16. Chapter 16

John and Sherlock took their time as they made their way to Lestrade's office. The whole way, the doctor pretended not to notice the small hisses of pain that his friend made now and again. Likewise, Sherlock pretended not to notice John pretending to not notice. Along the way, John made sure to reach the doors first and opened them so Sherlock didn't have to.

"Oh, thank God," Greg said upon seeing them. He set down his coffee. "I've got everything Gregson's team collected ready for you. We've been going over it, but I don't know..." He ruffled his silver hair with one hand, looking at the papers strewn across his desk. When Sherlock gave a pained intake of breath, the DI gave a guilty start. "Jesus, I forgot for a minute. I'm sorry to drag you here."

The detective waved the apology aside. He wanted to be there. "My brain was rotting at home anyway. Hand me the file," he ordered. It felt good to be at the Yard, to feel needed and useful. He took the file awkwardly. Unlike usual, Sherlock couldn't flip through the file at a furious pace. In fact, his hands were bothering him and it was difficult to hold the file at all.

John moved a table in front of the detective. "Lay it on that."

Begrudgingly, the younger man did so. He let his hands drop to his sides and shook them out before carrying on. It helped somewhat, reducing the pain in his wrists at least. Turning each page, Sherlock absorbed every scrap of information that was to be gleaned, but it wasn't enough. "I need to see the crime scene."

Greg frowned, then shot John a worried look.

"Oh, for heaven... I'm not planning on running around London on some mad chase, Lestrade." He turned his attention to John. "And I don't plan on running a marathon. I simply need to see the crime scene for myself. Something was missed, I know it." He shook his hands out again, wishing they would stop aching and give him some peace.

The DI found himself admiring his friend. He had been awed (and frustrated) by Sherlock many times in the past, but this was different. His friend was facing something he had no control over and he was fighting to carry on. Lestrade wasn't sure he would be doing so well under the same circumstances. Oh, he knew Sherlock was having his difficulties, but that was the point, he was still trying.

"I'll give you a ride." Greg held up his hand to forestall any objections. "I know, you won't ride in the back, but John doesn't mind. Do you?" He asked the doctor.

John shrugged. "It's fine with me." They wouldn't have to hail a cab. Anything that spared Sherlock walking distance and pain was good by him.

"So you can ride in the front." Greg crossed his arms and waited for the arguments to start.

"And we'll get there faster," Sherlock conceded as he closed the case file and stood slowly, his knees protesting. "Fine. He took a few short, painful steps before his joints loosened enough for him to walk with a semblance of normality.

"Do you have any ideas?" John asked, using the question as an excuse to walk by Sherlock's side. As he had done on the way in, he opened doors for his friend, so the detective wouldn't have to.

"Four, but it would be pointless to mention them before seeing the crime scene. What I see there should narrow things down nicely." He stumbled, catching himself on John and letting out a sharp cry of pain. He loathed this, his newfound lack of grace and increased clumsiness, not to mention the pain. Sherlock righted himself and made himself keep walking despite everything. He definitely ignored the other two men who had stopped to exchange worried glances. A few paces further along he sighed and turned. "Come along. The case awaits."


	17. Chapter 17

At the crime scene, Sherlock immediately focused on where the body had been found. He wanted to take a closer look, but his knees had stiffened on the car ride over. He braced himself - it was only Lestrade and John. They wouldn't deride him or comment in any way. They wouldn't, so sod it. He held out a hand towards his flatmate who took it and helped him ease down to his knees. "Thank you, John."

The doctor nodded in acknowledgement.

The detective's eyes and mind were just as sharp as ever, now that he had something to focus on besides his pain. He looked at the patterns the blood spatter had made, overlaid that in his Mind Palace with the image of the victim from the photo. Everything seemed so much clearer to him as he knelt there. He leaned forward and placed his head where the victim's had been, looking in the direction her head had been turned and her right hand had been outstretched. All that could be seen in that direction was a table full of knick knacks, but that could prove enlightening.

John took his friend's arm immediately when he held it out and helped him to stand. He had shook his head at Greg who had seemed to want to help, knowing Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it unless it was absolutely necessary.

Walking over to the table, Sherlock examined each item, without touching, that is until he came to a framed photograph of the victim and her boyfriend. "The dust has been disturbed," he complained."

"They had to check for fingerprints," Greg pointed out.

Sherlock sighed. The photo didn't sit flush in the frame, it sat just a bit off. He picked it up and flipped it over. One corner bulged on the back. Opening the frame proved to be problematic, so he handed it to John who opened it.

There was a folded piece of paper hidden away in the frame. Sherlock took it from the doctor and smoothed it out. Written on it were five sequences of numbers. The detective smiled. They were clearly numbered accounts. The killer had wanted the numbers and the credentials to access them and the victim had been near to capitulating. Just as clearly, the killer hadn't been the boyfriend - he had been out of the country on business.

Sherlock looked at the next photograph. It was a picture of the victim and her sister. He plunged into his Mind Palace. In the preliminary photos of the crime scene, this particular photograph had lain face down on the table. Interesting. That indicated a level of estrangement between the sisters. His smile grew larger. Oh, yes. Anger, greed and love turned to hate, those have combined to bring about their victim's untimely death. He still had it. He could still see what should have been obvious and put it together where others have failed.

The detective turned a bit too fast, causing him to hiss in pain, but his smile didn't falter. He handed the paper to Lestrade. "Check out the sister. She's in dire financial straits. She wanted access to the victim's numbered accounts, those accounts," he pointed o the paper, "causing their recent fallout and animosity towards one another. She won't have a firm alibi for the time of death, because she was here, killing her sister."

"Amazing," John breathed with a grin. "You did that on remarkably little."

"It was enough." Sherlock felt himself blushing. It had been a simple enough case, but it had felt so good using his mind again.

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. "You have no idea how great this is. My balls were on the line. Jesus, sorry." He tucked the paper into an evidence bag and pocketed it. "I have to say, I've missed having you around. Maybe..." He glanced at John and closed his mouth.

"Go ahead and say it. I think maybe you're right and I'm wrong." John rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly contrite.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor shifted from one foot to the other. "You should work as much as you can. It's intricate to who you are. Just look at you, you're... happy. Well, as happy as I've seen you in ages, at any rate."

The detective looked skeptical. "Too many cases require real legwork."

"I can do that for you. We're a team, remember." John held his gaze until Sherlock smiled tentatively and nodded. They would make it work.


	18. Chapter 18

The day for Sherlock's first Remicade infusion had finally arrived. His TB screening had been read days ago and the infusion had been immediately scheduled. Without it being discussed, John had shrugged on his coat and gone with the detective when he left for the rheumatologist's office.

Normally, only patients were allowed back in the infusion suite, but an exception had been made in John's case. This had been more to keep Sherlock from terrorising the staff than from kindness. After a brief visit with the detective's physician, they were put in a small room usually reserved for juvenile patients and their parents. There was a recliner for Sherlock and a chair for the doctor.

The nurse came in, smiling pleasantly. "Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson. I'm Janet and I'll be taking care of Mr. Holmes today." She walked over to a table where a small bag of saline and a larger bag of what appeared to be the same lay by it. Next to them, were some vials and a large syringe with a large bore needle. She used the later to draw the liquid from the vials and injected it into the larger of the two bags.

"I understand the process will take about two hours," John said conversationally.

Sherlock crossed his arms and simply glared at the nurse.

"More like an two and a half hours. There's the premedication. We have to give it about half an hour to work." She picked up everything she needed to perform the cannulation and set it on a rolling cart, then pushed it over in front of the recliner where Sherlock had sat. Taking his right hand in his, she didn't even look at his arm for a good site. The note in his chart told her all she needed to know, those veins needed to be preserved. Instead, she found a likely site on the back of his hand and soon had the cannula placed.

"The cannula was smaller than normal," Sherlock observed.

"Yes. It's the size used in neonatal units. We don't have to be concerned with the possibility of blood transfusion, so we can use the smaller size," Janet said as she taped the IV line in place.

"Hm," was the detective's only response.

Next, the nurse hooked up the small bag of saline to the IV line, then she pushed a small syringe full of chemicals into the IV.

Sherlock's curiosity was present in full force. "And that was-"

"Hydrocortisone and chlorphenamine. Now I'll take your baseline vitals, then we can get started in 30 minutes."

Five minutes later, the detective complained, "I'm bored, John. I can't possibly sit here for over 2 more hours."

"Yes, you can." John handed Sherlock a file. "Greg sent it. It's a cold case file. We thought it might entertain you for the duration."

Sherlock glared at the file. "I don't bloody want a boring cold case! I want to be out there doing what I could before all this bollocks got in the way!" He held out his hand for the file and opened it across his lap.

The doctor pulled a novel out of his coat pocket and began to read. Well, he tried to read. Unlike Sherlock who had refused to research the infusion process, John had. He knew this was the least risky part. The concern would come when the nurse switched over to the larger bag that contained the Remicade. John tried again to read his book, but finally gave up. He moved his chair closer to the recliner and looked at the file that was open on Sherlock's lap, reading it along with him. The 30 minute waiting period passed too soon.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes. It's time to switch you over." Janet switched the IV line to the larger bag. "Let me know if you feel strange, have trouble breathing or the like. I'll be back to check on you regularly."

John kept a close eye on his friend. The first 15 minutes seemed to go by without any problems. Janet came back in and interrupted Sherlock's study of the cold case file to take his vitals, earning her yet another glare.

"You're temperature is up a bit as is your blood pressure, but it's nothing that's not expected. Just try to relax. I'll check on you again in about 30 minutes."

Sherlock watched her retreating back disappear. "Why is she treating me like I'm an invalid? I'm not 70!" He turned back to the beginning of the case file. He thought he should have the case solved before the infusion was complete. A few minutes later, he brought his hand to his head, feeling dizzy. He tried to shake it off, but John noticed.

The doctor looked up from the file and saw that Sherlock was flushed a bright red. "Sherlock? What else is wrong?"

"Mm, dizzy."

John shot to his feet and ran to fetch Janet. They came back into the room together. The nurse immediately slowed the drip on the IV, then she fetched a cup of water and paracetamol. "Take this, she ordered." Whilst Sherlock downed the tablets, Janet prepared another syringe of chlorphenamine and injected it into the IV line slowly over a period of a minute. After that, she took his vitals, frowning as she wrote them down. Both she and John hovered, waiting to see if the symptoms abated.

Slowly, Sherlock regained his normal colour and he reported that the room was no longer spinning.

The nurse took his vitals again. This time she was much more pleased with the result. "We'll continue the drip at this slower rate. Doctor Watson, if he shows any further signs of reaction..."

"I'll get you immediately," John promised.

"I'm right here. She could have talked to me," Sherlock groused.

The doctor smiled. "And with your lovely disposition, I wonder why she didn't?"

Fortunately, the rest of the infusion went flawlessly. It was only interrupted by a lab technician coming by to draw bloods for standard labwork, Janet checking Sherlock's vitals, and the detective announcing at the top of his lungs that it had been the window washer who had slit the executive's throat in a simple fit of jealously.


	19. Chapter 19

John had watched his friend slowly improve over the weeks since Sherlock's first through fourth infusions of Remicade. He wasn't sure how much his friend had noticed it, though, still tethered by the weight of depression so much of the time as Sherlock was. He thought he might bring it up soon.

There was a bang from downstairs and Sherlock called out, "John! Come and see!" There was a distinctive ring of joy to his voice, one usually reserved for serial killers and locked room murders.

With a grin, the doctor ran down the steps from his bedroom to the living room, hoping this was it, that Sherlock had finally noticed. By the way the detective was spinning around the living room, looking at his hands, he had.

"Look, John!" The detective wriggled his fingers in front of the doctor's face. "They don't even hurt. I didn't realise. I got up and was brushing my teeth when I suddenly realised they don't hurt at all." He hugged John and spun him around. "Nothing hurts. Well that knee, but I can ignore that it's nothing compared to how I've been feeling. I'm alive, again, John! I want to do something." He started pulling the doctor towards the door to the flat. "Let's go to the Yard."

John resisted, holding up one hand as he laughed. "Alright, alright. But let's get dressed first. Lestrade won't appreciate either of us showing up in our pyjamas."

Sherlock looked down at himself. "Bother. Five minutes, John. No more!" He rushed off to his room to get dressed.

The doctor chuckled as he went to his own room to dress. As he got ready for the day, he thought about how good it was to see Sherlock being Sherlock again. He knew the remarkable results they were seeing might not last and side effects could still emerge, but by God, he was going to enjoy this and not look for problems unless they arose. Fifteen minutes later, he made it back downstairs to the living room and a very impatient flatmate. "Shall we, then?"

"It's about time, John." Sherlock flew down the stairs, only slightly hampered by his knee, then out the front door and onto the pathway. He was out in London again, practically whole. He spun on his heel, then raised an arm to hail a cab. Even that didn't hurt. When a cab stopped, he raced to open the door for John and waved him in with a flourish.

* * *

At the yard, they were making their way to Lestrade's office when Sherlock stopped John with a hand to the wrist. "I'll be right back," the detective said, looking over at Donovan.

He walked over to her and they talked for a bit. When he left her to return to John, Sally called after him, "Keep it up, Freak." The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up and he lifted a hand in acknowledgement. John disliked her a bit less.

They bumped shoulders as they headed on towards Lestrade's office. When they got there, John held back intentionally to let Sherlock sweep into the office dramatically. It had been so long since he had been able to do that, that it was a sight to see.

Greg looked up at Sherlock's entrance and froze, then he grinned boadly and leapt to his feet. "Look at you! Charging in here like you own the place." The DI couldn't restrain himself, he hugged his friend, patting him on the back.

The detective returned the hug because he could. It didn't hurt to be touched or to touch, something he had taken for granted his entire life. He would never take it for granted again.

"I want to celebrate, Lestrade. I want a proper case. Something gruesome and challenging." Sherlock spun on his heel, manic, then he flopped down into a chair and folded his hands beneath his chin. "Tell me you have something!"

Greg laughed and exchanged looks with John. "Nothing exciting, no. Just the usual, boring cases, I'm afraid. Maybe something will turn up soon, yeah?" He sat back down and propped his feet on his desk. "Damn, but it's good to see you up and really moving again."

With that, John concurred whole heartedly. "Yes, it is and about bloody time, too. In fact, I'm so happy about it, that I'm about to suggest we go see Molly. Maybe she'll have some body parts she can spare and Sherlock can get back to his experiments."

Greg shook his head. "Better you than me, mate."

Sherlock had already stood and was bounding out the door. "Come along, John."


	20. Chapter 20

Several weeks into Sherlock's new treatment, John had brought home a minor cold from the clinic. He hadn't thought anything about it until he and Sherlock had gone out on a case. During the investigation, he'd noticed his flatmate sneezing and coughing with increasing frequency. Finally, the coughs were coming almost one on top of the other. "Okay. That's it." He grabbed Sherlock by the arm. "Sherlock, Greg, I'm sorry, but we can't stay any longer."

"I'm fine," the detective wheezed.

The DI looked frankly relieved. He hadn't known how to get rid of Sherlock, but his young friend was clearly too ill to be working. "No you're not. Listen to yourself. Listen to John."

Sherlock started to protest, but whatever he had been about to say was lost in a fit of coughing and wheezing. He wrapped an arm around his chest and doubled over, his sides screaming in pain from the exertion.

John started tugging on the detective's arm. "You're wheezing, Sherlock. We're going to see Sarah. You can't go on like this."

"No, not Sarah," the detective managed to get out.

John set his jaw stubbornly. "It's Sarah or A&E. Take your pick. I'll call Mycroft if I have to. This isn't something to fuck around with."

Sherlock, still coughing, nodded his acquiescence. They made their way from Greg's office and down to the street. Sherlock waved down a cab and they climbed in. John gave the directions to the clinic and they were off.

When they got to the clinic, John walked Sherlock straight back to his office. He asked one of the nurses to let Sarah know they needed to see her as soon as possible. The doctor picked up his stethoscope and began examining his friend. As he listened to Sherlock breath, he heard definite wheezing. Just as Sarah stepped into the office, Sherlock broke out into a other fit of coughing.

"Oh, my. Sherlock, that sounds bad. How long has this been going on?" Sarah asked John as she crossed the room.

"It's hit hard and fast," John responded. "This morning it was just a sniffle and now..." He gestured at the detective who was red faced and unable to speak.

"I'll get a nebuliser," Sarah offered. "We need to get this wheezing under control."

"Agreed." John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Hang in there, Sherlock. Just a bit longer."

Sarah disappeared, only to return almost immediately with the machine. She plugged it in, poured a liquid into a chamber and turned it on. A mist began to pour out of a mouth piece. She handed it to Sherlock. "Breathe this in as deeply as you can. Don't try to fight it if you cough."

Sherlock nodded, that was all he could manage. His sides ached from the coughing and he was light headed, seeing stars. He placed the mouth piece to his lips and started breathing in the mist. For several minutes, he still coughed spasmodically, but eventually, the coughs subsided and he started breathing more easily. He could have cried from relief.

Sarah and John were talking. They had gone over his medical history and his current symptoms and reached an agreement.

John approached the detective and Sherlock started to drop the mouthpiece. "No, keep breathing that," John said, putting it back to his lips. "Just listen. You're immune system has been weakened by the Remicade. We knew that would happen. It seems you caught my cold, but your system couldn't fight it off very well. You've got a severe sinus infection and bronchitis. Sarah is going to prescribe an antibiotic for you. Since you're not on prednisone anymore, she's going to prescribe a steroid jab as well. We'll also be taking the nebuliser home with us." **Thank you, Mycroft.** "And Sarah will prescribe an emergency inhaler for you in case the wheezing starts up between treatments." He didn't mention that if the wheezing got too bad, he'd drag Sherlock to A &E. "Any questions?"

Sherlock shook his head. A simple cold had done this to him! How infuriating. He never got sick, never. This couldn't be the way things were going to be. He refused to accept that idea.

"One more thing," Sarah said, stepping close. "You're going to have to rest. I know it's not in your nature, but you won't have a choice, this time."

"Boring," Sherlock said, then he stuck the mouth piece back to his lips.

John barked a laugh. "I don't think it will be an issue. When he gets headstrong and tries to do something, the lack of oxygen to his brain will slow him down."

"True enough," Sarah agreed. The two doctors were staring at him with their arms crossed. "I suppose he'll want you to give him the shot." Sherlock nodded his agreement, making them both laugh. "I'll go get it," she offered. When she came back, she handed it to John. "When you're done, collect his prescriptions from the usually pharmacy, just take the nebuliser with you."

"Ta, Sarah," John said with a smile. When the door to his office closed, he switched off the nebuliser. "Okay, turn around and drop 'em." He held up the syringe with an evil grin.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock sat curled up in the corner of the sofa with a box of tissues in his lap. He was completely miserable and, though he was loathe to admit it, exhausted. All he wanted to do was stretch out on the sofa and sleep, but that was not going to happen. Every time the detective reclined, he started coughing fitfully. True, his use of the nebuliser meant he was no longer wheezing as much and it didn't feel like he was going to cough up a lung, but it was still unpleasant. He couldn't even yell 'Bored!' properly without setting of a coughing fit.

There came a knock at the door and Sherlock pulled a blanket over himself, not from modesty, but because he was chilled. "Come." He hoped it wasn't Mycroft. If it was, he was going to cough all over him. Sherlock found himself smiling at the prospect.

Lestrade stuck his head in the flat. "You look like hell," he noted as he stepped the rest of the way in.

The detective closed his eyes and groaned. "What do you want? I can't be much use to you like this." He gestured at himself and his microbe riddled body. He longed to be able to roll over and present his back to the room so he could hide his infirmity from the world.

"Can't a friend drop by out of concern?" the DI asked with a crooked smile.

John came in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. "Don't mind him. He's feeling sorry for himself. Have a seat. Tea?"

"No thanks." Greg sat in Sherlock's chair and John settled into his own seat across from him. He winked at the doctor as he held up several files. "If he's in that bad a mood, I suppose he won't be interested in these."

The detective cracked open a single eye and looked in Lestrade's direction. "Cold cases?" He opened his eyes fully and sat up a bit straighter, his shift in position causing him to cough. "Let me see." Sherlock held out his hand, unable to hide his eagerness. At least it would give him something to do besides sit there whilst his brain rotted.

Lestrade got up and gave his friend the files, then sat back down. "The first one isn't a cold case. It's the one we were working when you got sick. We still haven't solved it. Everything we've got is there."

The detective started coughing and there was an alarming amount of wheezing involved. It wasn't time for him to use the nebuliser. Greg looked on alarmed. The doctor tossed Sherlock's emergency inhaler to him and the detective actually missed it, it clattered on the floor. Sherlock bent and picked it up. He put it to his mouth and inhaled a single puff, waiting to see if that would be enough. Thankfully it was and he set the inhaler aside. He opened the top file and began reading.

"Jesus," Greg said under his breath. "I had hoped he'd be better by now."

"Oh he is." John stretched out his legs in front of him. "You should have come by yesterday. It was hideous. I just wish he could get some sleep. He really needs it."

"He's being stubborn about it as usual?"

The doctor shook his head. "For once, it's not really his fault. The medicine that stops the wheezing tends to make people jittery. Then there's the cough. Every time he lays down, it starts up again." John gave a laugh that was without humout. "Not to mention the antibiotic he's on apparently gives him restless legs. Hang around long enough and you'll see it. It's like he's riding a bike and can't stop."

Sherlock blew his nose, then dropped the tissue in a bin John had placed by the sofa. "Who has the dog?"

Lestrade blinked. "What?"

"The victim's dog, Lestrade. Who is taking care of it? That's your killer." Sherlock closed the file and tossed it onto the coffee table along with the others. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling not triumph at a case solved, but a deep boned weariness.

Greg was about to ask him to walk them through it, when Sherlock started coughing again. The DI grimaced in sympathy. When the fit had passed, Lestrade looked at his young friend. "Tell you what, text me your deductions when you feel up to it, yeah. Save your breath."

It was a measure of how bad the detective felt that he nodded his agreement. Even the promise of John's awed praise wasn't enough to temp him to talk at the moment.

The doctor frowned. "Sherlock, I know it's hard, but try to get some sleep, just a couple hours, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and stretched out on the sofa, resigned to two hours of misery.

Standing, Greg shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. "Feel better, Sherlock." He headed out the door, smiling sadly as his friend raised a hand to wave him out.

John got up and went over to his flatmate. He picked up the blanket that had slid off of him and spread it over him. He hoped Sherlock would manage a little rest.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock reached out and grasped John's wrist as the doctor started moving away from the sofa. "This." He tugged on the blanket, then shrugged. "Not just this, everthing you've done, John... You've gone over and above what is expected of a friend. Thank you." He was getting used to saying those two words, at least to his flatmate. Oddly, it didn't seem to bother him to say them to John. How strange.

John swallowed hard. "I'm a doctor. I couldn't do anything less. You have to know that." He hoped his friend would accept that as a plausible answer. There was so much more to it. The doctor had harboured strong feelings for his flatmate for quite some time, but he had buried them deeply, knowing Sherlock didn't do relationships. There simply wasn't a point in torturing himself on that point. He could be Sherlock's friend. He could take care of him and do most of the little things he wanted to do for him without ever sharing his feelings. It was fine. It was all fine.

Just then, a fit of coughing seized Sherlock. He let go of John's wrist as the coughs shook his body. He had wanted to say something more to the doctor, but John had stepped away. It was so infuriating!

"I'll get you some tea to sip," the doctor said as he retreated to the kitchen. "After you drink it, you can try to get that sleep you agreed to." John felt guilty for being glad of the coughing fit, but it had effectively ended the discussion. If Sherlock ever really pushed, if he turned his formidable intellect on the matter, he would quickly deduce the truth of the matter - that the doctor was in love with him. John couldn't let that happen. He put the kettle on and leaned hard against the side, letting his head hang and berating himself for ten kinds of a fool.

In the living room, the detective lay back on the sofa, miserable, the muscles in his chest aching. He let his eyes fall shut. There had been something in John's eyes, he knew there had, but what had it been? He should be able to tell, but he was so tired. Solving the case Lestrade had brought him earlier had taken more out of him than he had thought it had. He was ready to be over this illness, this brief halt in his everyday life. Just when the arthritis had improved to the point that he had started feeling human again, this had happened. He felt like sulking, but John didn't deserve a stroppy detective to put up with. Sherlock let out a great sigh and tried to relax. Before John came back with tea, the detective drifted off to sleep.

 _Sherlock was back at Angelo's with John on that first night. They were at the same table with the little candle flickering between them. He sat, gazing out the window waiting on the cab that he was sure would show up. He couldn't keep his hand still, his fingers were tap, tap tapping in a nervous rhythm._

 _John was eating. He paused, a fork full of food halfway to his lips. "People don't have arch-enemies." He regarded the detective with a bemused look._

 _Only half his attention on the conversation, Sherlock glanced at the doctor. "I'm sorry?" This John Watson was interesting, but he was being distracting at the moment._

 _"In real life." John made a disbelieving face. "There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."_

 _Sherlock looked out the window again, feeling as if he'd had this conversation before. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."_

 _"So who did I meet?" John asked, his voice full of curiosity._

 _Words that felt like an echo of the past fell from Sherlock's lips. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" he asked a bit sarcastically._

 _"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..." the doctor trailed off._

 _"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull." Sherlock had never been interested in that kind of thing, not until... No, he reminded himself, never._

 _"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asked, sounding more than a bit hopeful._

 _"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock tried to deny to himself again that he even had an area, especially an ex army doctor shaped area._

 _"Mm. Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" John definitely sounded hopeful at this point._

 _Sherlock turned to openly stare at John who was grinning._

 _"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." The doctor licked his bottom lip in a tantalising fashion._

 _The conversation had jumped forward, Sherlock could feel it. He knew this wasn't quite the way it had gone... when? He couldn't remember. He was meant to turn John's advances down at this point, wasn't he? He knew that much. Say that he was flattered, but married to his work._

 _Instead, Sherlock leaned forward, moving the candle aside and pressed his lips ever so softly to John's, his eyes falling shut in his dream._

The dream faded away, but would remain for the remembering when he would eventually wake.


	23. Chapter 23

Two weeks of misery had passed for Sherlock, his coughing and wheezing slowly tapering off. He could finally walk short distances without sounding as if he were bringing up a lung. During that two weeks, he had thought of the implications of his dream. He had thought of them repeatedly. It seemed obvious that his subconscious had conjured the dream in reaction to the way John had been caring for him over the last several months. At least, that was the most convenient explanation.

Unfortunately, the most convenient explanation didn't fit, did it? Sherlock rolled over in his bed and tried to go back to sleep, though he knew it was pointless. He had slept more in the last two weeks than he had the last two months before that. He sighed and let his mind continue down the inevitable path his thoughts had taken of late.

Sherlock had thought about the alternative to the convenient explanation, that he truly cared for, no loved John. If he admitted that to himself, then it presented... difficulties. Should he tell John? The detective knew that the worst case result of that would be John moving out which was completely unacceptable. Slighty better was the scenario where the doctor told him that he was flattered, but he didn't feel the same, could they stay friends. But what if... What if John reciprocated his feelings? Sherlock tried to imagine that. His friend was a very sexual creature and Sherlock... True, most days he could do just about anything he wanted without pain, but he'd never be the carefree man he had been before. His joints grew stiff when he stayed in one position for too long. His shoulders and his hips, not to mention his fingers ached when put under strain. He'd never be able to satisfy John. No, it would be best all around to not acknowledge any such feelings. John was his friend, nothing more.

The detective got out of bed and, for the first time in two weeks, went through his complete morning routine. He showered and shaved, then he took extra time on his hair, smiling to see his curls fall into their customary disheveled arrangement. He dressed in trousers, shirt and jacket and put on his shoes. Looking in the mirror, he saw a reflection that approached his old self. The moon face had finally gone away. Now he just looked like someone who had recovered from something nasty like the flu. Standing tall, he turned and left the confines of his bedroom and joined John in the living room.

The doctor looked around when he heard his flatmate and smiled to see him fully dressed. "You must be feeling more like yourself. Welcome back." He wanted to jump up and get a really good look at his friend, check his joints, listen to his lungs, but he restrained himself.

"I haven't been anywhere," Sherlock said with a wry smile. "I've been trapped here for ages. I thought I might go visit Molly and see if she has any fresh body parts for me." He'd pester her until she came up with something for him.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" John asked, concerned. "You'll take a taxi, yeah?"

Rolling his eyes, the detective crossed to a window and looked out. "I can't stand to be trapped in this flat another moment. My brain is starting to ooze out of my ears." He reached in his pocket and drew out his inhaler. "And, yes, I'll take a taxi. Besides, I'll carry this with me, like a good boy."

The doctor knew he had to let Sherlock make his own decisions about his health and what he was capable of doing. It was just so hard to relax his vigilance. He'd been watching over his friend so much since the morning Sherlock had woke to so much pain. John set the newspaper he had been reading aside. "Have fun. I'm sure Molly will be thrilled to see you. She's been worried sick about you, you know."

Sherlock made a face. "I hope she doesn't squeal and insist on hugging me." He shuddered at the thought. He liked Molly well enough as a friend, but she did have a tendency to go all school girlish around him.

"You have an excuse to put her off now," John said. "Just hold up a hand and remind her about the arthritis, Molly'll back off." Anything that made her back off was a good thing to John's way of thinking. He knew her attentions annoyed Sherlock to no end.

"The good Doctor Watson, teaching me how to use my illness to my advantage," the detective teased. "Shame on you." He stood up and put on his Belstaff, then headed out the door. "Don't wait up on me."

John watched him go, a smile on his face. It was so good to see Sherlock up and about again. It made him feel warm inside. It was a good day.


	24. Chapter 24

It pained John to see his friend so miserable yet again. Sherlock had been diagnosed with bronchitis five times in the last six months. It almost felt like he had been on antibiotics continuously for that period of time, but of course that hadn't been the case. There had been rounds of antibiotics, inhalers, infusers and such, followed by a couple weeks of slow recovery, then a new infection had set in in a cyclical pattern. If he could have, John would have gladly changed places with Sherlock. He would have taken all of his aches, pains and illnesses upon himself to spare the detective such suffering. As it was, all he could do was offer him a glass of water and his next dose of medication.

"Hey, Sherlock," the doctor said gently, you need to sit up and take this. He waited until the detective had raised up and gave him the water and tablets. His friend looked so pale and weak that it made John's heart ache for him.

Sherlock swallowed the medication, drained the glass and set it on the coffee table before collapsing back on the sofa in a fit of coughs and wheezes. "I'm so tired of this. I can't do it anymore. I just want it all to stop." He covered his face with the Union Jack pillow and tried to hide from the world. If only he could hide from his misery as well. He felt so bad, he rarely moved from the sofa. He was starting to feel a part of it. That was depressing.

John plucked the pillow from his friend's grasp and sat on the edge of the sofa, concerned. "Sherlock..." He gathered himself and started again, "Sherlock, are the antidepressants still working?" He hadn't liked the tone of his friend's words, not at all.

"Yes. Somewhat. As well as can be expected." The detective covered his eyes with his arm. "I'm not suicidal. I'm merely exhausted. I'm tired of being sick all the time. I'm tired of being tired and not caring about cases. I'm just tired, John." He uncovered his eyes and took the doctor's hand. "If it wasn't for you..." Sherlock brought John's hand to his lips and kissed it without thinking, then he let it drop. He let his eyes fall shut and tried to relax.

The doctor touched the spot on his hand where Sherlock had kissed it, wishing it meant more than it did. With a sigh, he reminded himself that the detective did things without thinking about what they might mean to others. Instead of dwelling on it, he turned his thoughts to the immediate problem, Sherlock's continued and repeated illnesses. "Where's your mobile? You're calling your rheumatologist. Something has to give. The Remicade is helping with your arthritis, but at too great a cost. It's time to try some else." Anything else as far as John was concerned.

Sherlock laughed, which led to a fit of wheezing coughs. "And what if the next medication is worse or doesn't work?" His tone was bitter through the continued wheezing. He didn't see how things could get better. What if this was as good as it got?

"Then, dammit, we keep trying until we find something that works. What we don't do is give up." John took up Sherlock's hand. "I'll never give up on you and neither will you."

The detective looked to their joined hands and suddenly his lips tingled with the remembered kiss he had placed there. "This isn't right," he said. "I've let myself become too attached to you. I rely on you too much, both physically and emotionally. You should know..." He broke off, unable to find the words to continue.

John was confused, not knowing what Sherlock was trying to say. The one thing he did know was that it wasn't what he wanted to hear. "What should I know?" he asked, brow furrowed.

The detective decided John deserved to know the truth, so he braced himself to say it. "You should know I think I've fallen in love with you. Wait, please. It goes back to before the RA onset and has only grown stronger. I never intended to tell you, but... It's got stronger. I don't think I can hide it anymore." Sherlock bit his lip, then continued. "Mycroft will take care of me, if you feel you need to move out. I understand completely." He took a deep, shuddering breath that set off another coughing fit.

John waited until the detective's coughing had subsided. "Sherlock, if you weren't so ill, I'd kiss you. I'm not going anywhere. I feel the same about you. If my actions over the last few months haven't shown you that... I love you, you berk." He lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed it over and over. "That's why I'm not going anywhere. But you still need to call your doctor. I can't stand seeing you like this. And when you're better, we can talk more about what this means for us, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Pass me my phone. I'll call right now." He wanted to feel better, not just for himself, but now for John as well. He placed the call.


	25. Chapter 25

Another visit to the Rheumatologist, another long discussion, and another round of blood work and the course of action had been set. Several weeks had passed and now Sherlock was preparing for another infusion, but this time it would be the medication Rituxan. It was supposed to have fewer respiratory side effects.

John had gotten a small overnight bag out and was packing it, much to Sherlock's bemusement.

"What are you doing?" the detective asked. "It's not as if we're going to be there overnight." He watched John, but didn't stop his nervous pacing. He didn't ask himself why he was nervous.

John shoved a handful of files into the bag along with some bottles of water and a couple of bags of crisps. "True, but the doctor said the infusion will take quite a bit longer than the other ones did. I don't want you getting bored." If Sherlock started climbing the walls with boredom, John would soon lose his mind.

Sherlock perked up. "Are those cold cases, then? How did you manage to get Greg to give them to you?" He hadn't had any in quite some time. Lestrade had stopped sending them a few respiratory infections back.

John grinned to himself. "I threatened him with your presence after the infusion. I told him he could deal with your stroppy arse." Greg had looked horrified and quickly handed them over.

The detective stuck his tongue out at John as he pulled on his coat. "I won't complain about your characterisation too much since it worked. Give me one of the files." He held out his hand inperiously.

John shook his head. "Nope. Not until after the infusion is started." He pulled on his on coat, picked up the bag in his right hand and grasped Sherlock's hand in his left. "Come on, or we'll be late."

* * *

Sherlock was already bored. The canula had been placed and the pre-medications administered. The nurse wouldn't start the actual infusion for almost another hour. He kept picking at the tape that held the canula in place until John finally was forced to slap his hand away. The detective looked at him, pouting.

"Give me that," the doctor said iritably, taking hold of Sherlock's offending hand. With his free hand, he dug in the bag he had brought and pulled out one of the cold case files and shoved it into the hand that he held. "Solve it before the nurse comes back," John challenged. He had read up on the infusion protocol and knew they had over six hours ahead of them to sit there. He hadn't dared to tell the detective that. The good news was that future infusions wouldn't take nearly as long. Still, they had to survive today. He dreaded the upcoming hours.

Sherlock startled John when he threw the file on the floor and glared at it. John was glad they were in the private parent/child infusion room and no one had seen his friend's tantrum.

"What's your problem?" the doctor hissed, trying to keep his temper.

Talking wasn't Sherlock's strong point, not when it was about emotions or relationships. He didn't lift his eyes to meet John's. "You haven't touched me."

"What?" John asked, confused. "I touch you all the time."

"No you don't. Not like... that." The detective willed his friend to understand and not make him spell it out for him.

The doctor blinked. "Ah, yes. I see." He couldn't believe they were going to have this discussion here. "It hasn't been because I don't want to. You've just been so sick lately, and tired. I didn't think you'd want..."

"You didn't think I could, you mean, not with my hands and my other joints bothering me. You find the idea disgusting." Sherlock wanted to get up and storm away. "Get out," he growled instead.

"Nope." John took Sherlock's hand, the one without the canula, and brought it to his lips. He kissed it, giving attention to each knuckle. "I am anything but disgusted. I will admit that I am afraid of hurting you, but, if you want it as badly as I do, we can find a way. As a matter of fact, I've been doing research on the matter." The doctor blushed. He looked around to make sure the nurse wasn't approaching. "I can make a trip to a sex shop. There are some toys that can make things easier. Special shaped pillows, a few things that are more esoteric."

"You're serious," the detective said, his face breaking into a disbelieving smile. "You've given this some thought."

"I've given it lots of thought. You'll need to take a painkiller and a hot bath before we get started, then let me take the lead if you're hurting. When you're not, I'll lay back and let you take the lead." John kissed Sherlock's hand again. "How's that sound?"

Sherlock's pupils were blown wide. "Can we go home now?"

The doctor laughed. "Nope. You have to get your infusion first." He picked up the cold case file from the floor. "Now, solve this case. I find it remarkably sexy when you do."

Smiling, the detective started flipping through the file.


	26. Chapter 26

During the infusion, Sherlock's blood pressure kept creeping up. He didn't exhibit any other adverse reactions, so they simply slowed the drip and continued to monitor his vitals. It was good that John had come so well prepared as the infusion took the better part of the day. Even with the cold cases files, the detective had grown restless by the end of the infusion. He snapped at the nurse who removed the canula and wrapped his hand against bleeding.

"He means thank you," John told her with a glare for his friend. Boyfriend? Yeah, he liked that idea. Boyfriend. The doctor couldn't help it, he sniggered. That earned a suspicious look from Sherlock and a curious look from the nurse.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. "You're laughing at me."

"Of course I wasn't. You know I would never. I was thinking about how I want to take my brilliant, amazing, genius of a boyfriend home and show him the things I promised him I would." The doctor hadn't been, really, but he was now. Oh how he was. They could stop by a shop on the way home. He saw a flicker of unease cross the detective's face. "Unless you don't feel up to it, of course."

The nurse had long since blushed and fled the room.

As much as Sherlock was interested in what John had mentioned earlier, he truly didn't feel well. "I want to, I really do, but..." He pressed a hand over his chest. "I don't feel well, John. I feel all... not right."

"How long has this been going on?" John asked, concerned.

In answer, the detective looked down at his clasped hands.

"Well, fuck. You should have said something." John snatched up the clipboard that the nurse had left behind. Sherlock's blood pressure was running consistently around 165/116. He frowned and went after the nurse. "Janet, about Sherlock's blood pressure readings... They're rather high."

"They're fine, Doctor Watson, I assure you. The first two infusions usually result in elevated blood pressure. It should return to normal within the next few hours. It won't go as high on subsequent infusions as his body adjusts." Janet placed a hand on John's arm in reassurance. "Just keep him calm and quiet. Try to get him to rest and lay on his left side until his blood pressure normalises. That's about all you can do."

The doctor didn't like that answer, but it was all he had to work with. "Thanks. I'll do my best. Of course you know how easy that's likely to be with him," John said wryly.

"I know, Doctor Watson. Good Luck."

* * *

"Lay back down on the sofa, babe," John ordered his very bored flatmate. It was about the ninth time he had said it.

"But, John..." Sherlock started to complain.

The doctor cut him off. "But me no buts. I can tell you still feel like crap and I know your blood pressure hasn't fallen in the last five minutes since I checked it." John stood hovering over his patient with his hands on his hips. "If you behave, I'll find us a movie and you can deduce all the characters. You can even deduce the ending, but you have to stay on your left side."

"Boring." Sherlock lay back down on the sofa. "Come sit with me, at least. I want to rest my head in your lap. That is, if you really want to be my boyfriend."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "You can't use that to blackmail me forever, git." John eased himself to the sofa and let the detective rest his curls in his lap. "Other than the blood pressure, how do you feel, babe?" he asked, concerned.

"My back hurts," the detective said with a pout. No matter how he lay, he couldn't get comfortable.

John turned on the telly and found something for them to watch, well, something for him to watch and for the detective to deduce. When he set the remote down, he eased his hand along the long line of Sherlock's back, massaging it. "Is that the spot?"

"Lower. Just at the very base," Sherlock told him. When the doctor found the spot, Sherlock let out a purr of contentment. "That helps. Thank you, John." He closed his eyes at the relief he felt as the muscles in his lower back relaxed. "The recliner they had me sitting in was rubbish. It should be used as a torture device."

"Mm, better than sitting in a straight chair I would imagine," the doctor observed. "Now get on with deducing this movie for me. Let's see how good you are." He propped his feet up on the coffee table.

"It's not fair when it's science fiction, John. There are no rules," the detective said, pouting, as laser beams criss crossed the screen.

John disagreed. "There are rules. You just have to learn them." He bent forward and dropped a kiss to Sherlock temple which took the detective's breath away.

The doctor kept surprising him that way. Perhaps John really did love him after all. Perhaps he should really let him.


	27. Epilogue

John woke to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. It had been happening with more regularity since the detective had had several Rituxan infusions and was doing quite well. Still, every time it happened, the doctor lay there in their bed, listening, with grateful tears in his eyes. Not only were Sherlock's joints much improved, but he hadn't had a single respiratory illness in months. It was almost like the detective wasn't ill at all.

Almost.

There were still days when the arthritis flared up and Sherlock struggled to get out of bed, but those days had become few and far between. On those days, his black moods descended and John stayed by his side until they had passed. Still, life was so much better than either of them had dreamt it would ever be again.

John got up and padded to the living room where he sat in his chair and watched his boyfriend play. Hearing him enter, Sherlock turned and smiled at him. He kept playing, remembering their activities of the night before. The doctor had been creative in their lovemaking, providing much needed support for Sherlock's aching hip. John would never cease to amaze him. With a flourish, Sherlock finished playing, then sketched a bow in John's direction.

The doctor clapped. "That was absolutely beautiful. Gorgeous. I'll never get tired of that. Come here." He held out his arms in Sherlock's direction.

Placing the violin and bow on the desk, Sherlock went and sat in John's lap. He leaned over and placed a peck on his cheek. "I'm feeling like a one today, Doctor Watson." A one was the best Sherlock could feel with ten being the worst.

John grinned. "That's wonderful. So what will you do today? Some experiment, I suppose…"

The detective's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at it. He had received a sequence of crime scene photos from Lestrade. "Oh, better than that. Get dressed, John. The game is on."


End file.
